


Two Sides of the Same Coin

by days_of_storm



Series: The Eye of the Beholder Series - Book II [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 55,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here begins the second book of the "The Eye of the Beholder" Series. It starts off where the last book ended, with John and Sherlock being on 'honeymoon' aka. a 'yay we are still alive' - holiday in Winchester. It might be helpful to read the series first before reading this one, but you might still be able to understand what is happening if you start with this one. </p><p>This series is based on Sherlock Series One, and only some elements of the other two seasons feature. However, there is no Mary Morstan, nor is there Reichenbach. </p><p>To those who have waited more than a year for this, thank you for your patience :) I will try to post weekly, depending on how swamped in work and real life I am. Feedback is very much appreciated. </p><p>Huge thanks to Verity, Anarion and Rox, who are ever supportive and whom I love dearly.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins the second book of the "The Eye of the Beholder" Series. It starts off where the last book ended, with John and Sherlock being on 'honeymoon' aka. a 'yay we are still alive' - holiday in Winchester. It might be helpful to read the series first before reading this one, but you might still be able to understand what is happening if you start with this one. 
> 
> This series is based on Sherlock Series One, and only some elements of the other two seasons feature. However, there is no Mary Morstan, nor is there Reichenbach. 
> 
> To those who have waited more than a year for this, thank you for your patience :) I will try to post weekly, depending on how swamped in work and real life I am. Feedback is very much appreciated. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Verity, Anarion and Rox, who are ever supportive and whom I love dearly.

Chapter One

 

The journey back to London was uneventful. Mycroft had offered to send a helicopter, but Sherlock had refused and John knew it wasn’t simply because he didn’t want to owe Mycroft yet another favour. Sherlock wanted to take the train from Winchester to London and John was fairly sure that he wanted to have more time for the transition back to normality. With a smile, he closed his eyes and let the memories of the last night wash over him. 

***

The hotel manager had sent up another bottle of champagne for their last night and Sherlock had become aroused as soon as John had opened it, his sentences becoming shorter and the tips of his ears turning pink. John recalled their first night; and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when he remembered how Sherlock had come undone beneath him without being touched at all. It had been almost a week since they had taken their relationship to a new level. Sherlock had wanted to try again, but John has said that he wanted to wait, making sure that neither of them felt sore. He also liked the idea that they had something to look forward to at the end of their little holiday. 

Sherlock clearly remembered John’s words when he sat down on the bed, their bags packed again and one night left in their little private paradise. John smiled as he poured their glasses. All of this had been amazing, but they both missed Baker Street and London, and it felt like it was truly time to return home. But they still had the night and John’s promise ahead of them. 

Sherlock toed off his socks, making John smile wider. He carried the glasses to the bed and stood between Sherlock’s legs. “Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for all of this. I … thank you.”

Sherlock looked at him silently and John was certain it wasn’t because he didn’t know what to answer, but because he wanted to know how exactly John would choose to thank him. So he decided to show him. “Take the glasses.” 

Sherlock swallowed audibly and John smirked. 

“John,” Sherlock said his name, just because he wanted to say it. John would never really understand why he did that, but he imagined that Sherlock’s brain was filled to the brim with information and thought processes, and that voicing a thought would help him focus. What he did know for sure was that it was one of his favourite things in the world.

Long fingers wrapped around his hands, holding them for a second before he moved them to take the glasses from John. Then he closed his eyes.

John’s heart gave a start and he had to hold his breath in order to keep himself from making an embarrassing sound. Sherlock’s small smile told him that he knew nevertheless. “I love you,” John whispered, and it was Sherlock’s turn to hold his breath. So John leaned in to kiss him. Just lips, and breath and small sounds which neither would admit to making. Sherlock held up those glasses all the while, and John was incredibly tempted to see whether he could make him spill the champagne. 

“Try,” Sherlock smiled into the kiss. “I want to know, too.” 

John chuckled. “Alright.” He pressed closer and ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer towards him. He could feel that he was fully hard already, gasping when John rolled his hips. “You won’t last long.” John didn’t know whether it was a simple statement or a promise, but Sherlock squirmed against him. By now he knew that for Sherlock it was definitely not a problem to come more than once within a relatively short span of time, but he knew that if they were to properly sleep with each other again, Sherlock would want to last a while. 

“Stand.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment, but John didn’t repeat the order. Instead he leaned forward again and kissed him, sucking at Sherlock’s lower lip while he slowly moved away. Of course Sherlock followed. John stepped back and Sherlock stood up from the bed without a word of protest; but then again speaking would have turned out to be a difficult thing to do, considering his current location of his lower lip. John waited until he was sure that Sherlock stood properly before he released him. 

“Stand still,” he smiled when Sherlock leaned down in the hopes of being kissed again. “Still,” he repeated this time, fighting the urge to simply hold Sherlock for a while.

He pushed up Sherlock’s arms so that they were out the way. Then he ran his hands over his chest, enjoying the steady and quick drum of his heartbeat against his palms. John was sure that somewhere in his scientific brain, Sherlock was still trying to break his emotions up into hormones and chemical processes; but no matter how much adrenaline his actions set free in him; the knowledge about it would not help him to control it.

He could feel Sherlock’s skin break out in gooseflesh even through the shirt and when he flattened his hands against his stomach and moved up, he was surprised to find Sherlock’s nipples hard before he had even touched them. “Jesus,” he ran his thumbs over them, feeling Sherlock shudder. When he did it again, Sherlock’s couldn’t keep quiet. A desperate sound escaped him which was followed by a full body shudder. John wondered whether he should actually worry about Sherlock collapsing rather than holding up the champagne glasses. He left Sherlock’s chest and gently stroked up his arms. He hadn’t spilled anything yet, but John could tell that he was having quite a hard time not breaking the glasses. 

“You okay?” he asked, kissing his stubble-rough chin. Sherlock had thrown his head back when John had touched him, leaving John with the urge to mark him. Instead he nudged his chin with his nose and kissed his throat. “Because if you’re not okay ...,” he opened the first button on Sherlock’s shirt, letting his fingers caress the soft skin above Sherlock’s collar bone, “... I would have to stop.” With that he pulled away and just looked at Sherlock for a moment. 

And Sherlock breathed in and out, deeply and fast, the buttons on his shirt straining against the pressure of his chest. John could see his nipples through the white fabric and he wondered how he had never noticed these things before. Sherlock had always been gorgeous; how could he have missed the sensuality and obvious sexuality of the man who thought himself to be above emotions? Had, John corrected with a smile; he had thought to be above emotions. 

“Is that a yes?” he smiled at the trembling man in front of him, even though he still had his eyes firmly closed. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock moaned and John wondered for the first time whether he could come just from watching Sherlock being turned on. 

“Good.” His own voice did not sound quite like it should. He stepped closer again and watched as Sherlock leaned forward, sensing that he was in touching distance again. “You like not seeing me, don’t you?” John smiled and reached out to open the next button. 

“Too many answers,” Sherlock replied, frowning.

“Tell me,” John leaned forward and kissed the newly revealed skin. 

“I dislike not seeing you, because I always want to see you. It’s become a reflex, almost. An urge,” Sherlock offered tentatively. John went for another button. “But I like not seeing what you will do; because nine out of ten times I would be able to tell by the expression on your face.” John attached his lips to a nipple and sucked, hard. Sherlock grunted, his knees buckling. It took him a while to find his voice again. “I can use my other senses, which both arouses me and keeps me ... hmmm ... keeps me ...,” he stopped talking, biting his lips hard, and John decided that sucking on Sherlock’s nipple through the fabric of a silk shirt was definitely one of the best ideas he had ever had. “You were saying?” he grinned as he opened the rest of the buttons, watching as Sherlock frowned at the lost train of thought. He could see him give up. “I forgot,” he admitted. “You are incredibly distracting.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment!” Sherlock tried to sound stern.

“Right,” John chuckled and spread open the shirt, revealing Sherlock’s gooseflesh covered chest and hard nipples. “Good God.”

“What?”

“I did this,” John explained, drawing his fingertips along Sherlock’s skin, watching him shiver once more.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his skin broke out in a fresh wave of gooseflesh and his breathing grew increasingly funny. “Relax, Sherlock.”

“I don’t think I can.” Sherlock’s voice was strained. He had opened his eyes again, and John wondered whether he did it to see what John was up to or whether to not have to deal with whatever images his brain provided for him. 

“Are you close?” John asked against his skin before he tipped his head down and sucked on the same nipple again, swirling his tongue, feeling Sherlock’s legs give when he bit down.

He tried to hold him up, but Sherlock stumbled backwards and sank to the floor with the bed against his back. “John, you better take off my trousers.”

John watched him in fascination. “It’s becoming a regular thing, isn’t it?” He grinned at the fact that in all of this, Sherlock was still bravely holding up the glasses, having spilled only very little. 

“Not too late,” Sherlock grunted. The way he was sitting must have been almost painful as his trousers were not giving him any room and even sitting with his legs wide open didn’t help the situation. 

“I wanted you standing up,” John said, trying not to throw himself down and manhandle the not quite unsuspecting heap of arousal on the floor. 

“I can’t! John, please!” Sherlock was begging and John gave in, carefully kneeling down to open Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock managed to lift his hips long enough for John to pull away the fabric.

“Alright then,” he murmured, tugging at Sherlock’s hips so that he could reach between his legs. He let his hand hover over the heat of Sherlock’s flesh for a moment before he decided that he didn’t want to use his hand. When he pulled away, Sherlock whined in frustration. 

“Give me a glass,” he said, grinning at the idea which had just formed in his head. Sherlock would probably hate him. And then come very hard.

Sherlock handed him a glass and then placed the other next to him on the floor. “It’s not safe anymore,” he explained with a small smile. 

“Close your eyes again,” John said quietly but with determination. Then he dipped his finger in the champagne and wet Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned and licked, sucking John’s index finger into his mouth. “Let go,” John smiled, gently pulling away again. He repeated the action a few times, making sure that Sherlock concentrated on his lips. Then he took a large sip and lowered himself between Sherlock’s legs. For a second he contemplated whether this was a good idea, because they would make a mess on the carpet, but then he pulled Sherlock’s trousers close and pushed them under his slightly raised legs. Sherlock didn’t seem to know or care about the abuse of his trousers as he shifted forward and closer to John, sitting down on them. John inhaled deeply through his nose and then sucked Sherlock into his mouth, listening to the unbelieving gasps which the bubbles and the heat of his mouth drew from Sherlock. For a handful of seconds Sherlock just stopped moving, his laboured breathing being the only sound in the room; and then he came, grabbing John’s hair to hold him in place, arching up into his mouth, groaning loudly.

John tried to swallow, but the position of his head and the fact that Sherlock was fucking his mouth made it very hard to coordinate anything, so he ended up spilling most of it over Sherlock’s crotch and his trousers. Eventually he managed to swallow; but because he didn’t feel satisfied yet, he took a firm hold of Sherlock’s still hard cock and started licking it, lapping at him, drawing sounds from his lover’s mouth that would have mortified him had he been conscious of making them. 

He kept it up until Sherlock finally came around and pushed him away gently. “Too much,” he said, his voice a weak rumble in his chest. 

So John sat back on his heels and watched as Sherlock slowly regained control over his body and sat up straight, his legs spread with John sitting between them. Then a wide smile spread across his face. “My turn.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there is plot coming up soon. Just not quite yet XD

John felt a shiver run down his spine. Anticipation made him giddy. “I want you to make love to me.” Silence hung between them heavily for a moment. “I want you to make love to me in any way you want.”

Still, Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John could see that his brain was working fast, trying to settle on what it was that he wanted.

“What are you thinking about?” John gently stroked down his leg until he reached his foot, running his index finger across his sole, making Sherlock squirm. 

“Deciding,” Sherlock eventually said, biting his lip. “And I think I want to ...,” he sucked his lower lip into his mouth and pulled a face which definitely belonged into the category of adorable. John tried not to look too smitten. “Have you in the shower.”

“Okay,” John was surprised that he was surprised – and suddenly very turned on by the thought. “We can’t break it, though,” he added, watching Sherlock’s eyes go wide before he started laughing.

“We could run a bath,” Sherlock suggested when he had calmed down again, reaching out a hand to touch John’s face. John leaned into his touch, closing his eyes for a moment. “But chances are that we’d flood the bathroom.”

“Alright,” John rose to his feet and started to undress. Sherlock still sat against the bed, his legs spread open wide. When John dropped his jeans and his underwear, Sherlock sucked in his breath through his teeth. Then he leaned forward and reached for John’s hips, pulling him closer. But John stayed out of the reach of Sherlock’s mouth, despite the overpowering urge to watch himself slip in between those inviting lips. “You said shower.”

“And you said I could do what I want,” Sherlock retorted, making John chuckle. 

“I’ll come if you touch me,” John warned, leaning back a bit.

“Good deduction, John,” Sherlock grinned and leaned forward again; this time far enough to lick him.

“Oh, Jesus,” John closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock’s next move. If he decided to go for the kill now he would not be able to hold back.

Sherlock gently sucked the head into his mouth, making John hiss. Just when he decided that maybe moving closer to Sherlock might be a good idea after all, Sherlock pulled away and licked his lips. “Bathroom,” was all he said, and John – very much against the will of his quite happy erection – extended a hand and pulled him up. The temptation to pull him into a hug was strong, but John feared that it wouldn’t help the situation; so he stepped away as soon as Sherlock was upright. 

Sherlock suggested that it would be a good idea to plug the bathtub and John, unsuspecting of any ulterior motive behind his suggestion, bent over to do it. In that moment, Sherlock stepped behind him and took a firm hold of his buttocks, squeezing until John thought he might fall head first into the tub. When he felt Sherlock’s thumb pressing against him, he jerked upright. “Wait!” He tried to calm his breathing, his chest heaving. 

“Did it hurt?” Sherlock sounded anxious and John turned around, taking his face between his hands to kiss him while he still tried to catch his breath. 

“No. It didn’t hurt. I just ... I just need a second.” It hadn’t felt as strange and unfamiliar as it had the first time. In fact, the opposite was true and John was amazed and a little bit scared by the craving he had felt; the naked need for Sherlock to be inside of him again; and not just his finger. Inhaling deeply, he stepped into the tub and turned on the water. “Did you bring the lube?” 

Sherlock nodded and carefully placed the tube on the rim of the bathtub. Next to it he put two condoms. John smirked and grabbed the shower gel, starting to soap up. Sherlock seemed amused by the speed with which John showered and he watched him for a moment before he stepped under the spray, crowding John against the wall. “Careful!” John gasped when his feet almost slipped. “Turn around,” Sherlock growled against his lips. John dropped his gaze and grinned at Sherlock’s returned erection. “You’re like an eighteen-year-old,” he commented as he turned around. Sherlock did not reply, but John could tell that he was amused. He quickly washed away the traces of John’s little experiment, stroking himself in the process. 

There was nothing else to hold on to but the little ring which held the shower head. When John grabbed it they both had to giggle. The water was a bit distracting, but John enjoyed feeling it run over his back while his forehead rested against the tiles. It also kept him from hearing what Sherlock was up to.

He grunted when Sherlock took a firm hold of his hips and pulled back a little. John knew it must have looked absolutely indecent – but wasn’t that the point? He grinned and flexed his fingers before closing them around the shower head, praying that the fastening would be of better quality than their own. 

When Sherlock let go, John gasped. He knew that Sherlock would try to tease him a bit and it didn’t take long until he felt his fingers gently rubbing with increasing pressure. John tried to keep his breathing even but he knew that things would only get harder and that playing it cool was definitely not in order now. He felt one finger press into him, deeper than Sherlock had dared the first time; and this time John wanted him to hurry up. He knew it was silly and that it would hurt if Sherlock didn’t prepare him properly, but the urge to feel him inside of him grew with every passing moment. 

Sherlock moved in and out, the water not quite sufficient to help him along, mixing pleasure with a low burn. “Sherlock!” John dropped one arm from the shower to rest his face against his forearm, afraid to hit his head if Sherlock did something surprising.   

And he was glad that he thought ahead, because after a bit of shuffling and groping from Sherlock John suddenly felt something completely unexpected; Sherlock’s tongue. He licked at him and then bit his buttock just to return to the centre and press a little harder against him with his tongue. John lost it then while his mind was still busy trying to comprehend what Sherlock had done ... was doing ….

John bit his own arm to keep from cursing at Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t stopped yet and John was still shaking and he couldn’t imagine ever coming down from this again.

Eventually, Sherlock sat back on his heels, the water now reaching over his knees and he pushed a finger in again. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

“Stop?” Sherlock asked, sounding worried.

“Don’t you dare!” John felt himself tense around Sherlock’s finger, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Aftershocks rocked through him and he didn’t know how he was still standing up.

“What the hell where you thinking?” John was still a bit in awe of what Sherlock had done. He wondered now just how extensive Sherlock’s research had been. “Fuck!” He leaned heavily against the wall, not trusting his legs to hold him up. Sherlock’s finger slid in and out more quickly now and even though he felt extremely sensitive, his action sent white heat up and down his spine and he was sure he would come again if Sherlock kept it up.

“I wanted to know what you taste like.” Sherlock reached around him and turned off the water. John tried to somehow comprehend the fact that Sherlock meant what he had said. This was so far out of his comfort zone he didn’t know what to think anymore. But Sherlock seemed to know perfectly well what he was doing and what he wanted from John, so he decided to just let him experiment. It was all about trust now, and John knew that he could trust Sherlock completely in this. 

He heard the little plastic tube being opened and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he would make it through this without doing anything which he’d later feel embarrassed about. Sherlock pulled out his finger, but returned quickly, sliding in more easily now. John exhaled and tried to prepare for more. Instead, Sherlock kept it to one finger only. He had stood up again and moved closer, kissing John’s shoulder before resting his chin on it. “Is that alright?”

“Yes,” John murmured. “I think it is.”

“You think?”

“I can’t ... I don’t know. It feels strange. The good kind of stra ...” his sentence was lost in a moan when Sherlock bent his finger slightly. John couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the feeling of having a part of Sherlock’s body inside his own. He huffed out a laugh, leaning back and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “More,” he whispered. “Please.”

Sherlock pulled away to add more lube and returned with two fingers which quickly became three. He felt the stretch, but it felt much less scary now than it had the first time. When Sherlock finally moved back to grab a condom John turned around to watch him. He looked flushed, his hair all over the place; not entirely soaked, but wet enough for some strands to stick to his forehead and neck while other’s curled wildly around his head. His lips relaxed into a smile but he bit his lower lip when he put on the condom, looking up at John from under his eyelashes.

John felt his breath knocked out of him and he could see that he wasn’t the only one. He blinked water out of his eyes only to remember that the water had been turned off a while ago. Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat and pulled him against his body, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said very quietly. John ruffled his hair and then proceeded to gently scratch his neck, feeling a shiver run through his lover’s body. He smiled and pulled him in tighter, waiting for Sherlock to let go. When he didn’t he went back to playing with his hair; and when that didn’t cause Sherlock to move back, he turned his head and sucked his earlobe into his mouth, biting down gently. Sherlock moaned quietly and John pressed his hips against Sherlock’s, drawing a louder grown from him. “Come on. Let’s do this before I come again,” John murmured against Sherlock’s neck, “or you.”

That seemed logical enough for Sherlock to loosen his grip. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologise for being emotional,” John said, his voice a tiny bit shaky.

“Sorry,” Sherlock answered and John chuckled, pressing a kiss to his lips. Sherlock moved away and wiped his face. With a sniff he turned to grab the lube and John had the sudden urge to watch his face while they made love. But Sherlock didn’t seem ready to show that much emotion, and nudged him to turn around again.  

He started with his fingers again, teasing him a bit at first before pushing in, while John became very much aware that he wanted Sherlock’s hands on his cock at the same time. But considering that one hand was busy holding the lube and the other making love to him, he figured he might just have to do it himself. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back as he dropped one hand down to take hold of himself and grunted in frustration when Sherlock dropped the lube and grabbed his wrist instead, pinning it to his stomach. “No,” he growled. “You are not going to touch yourself.” 

“Alright, alright. I’m not touching myself, okay? See?” He placed both hands against the tiles above his head and Sherlock grunted his approval. For a second John feared that he might start giggling at the very primal behaviour of the two of them, but then Sherlock quickly picked up the lube again and removed his fingers and John told himself to breathe. Breathe now, because you do not know when you’ll have the chance again. This time he did giggle, and Sherlock bit his shoulder, just hard enough to hurt; and to send a bolt of white heat into John’s cock. “Oh God.” 

“Sherlock,” came an amused voice from behind him. 

John laughed and braced himself for invasion; a thought that made him laugh harder.

 

“I’m glad this amuses you so much.” Sherlock added more lube and pushed two fingers in to make sure to spread it.

For a moment John went back to just breathing before he could answer. “You wouldn’t find it funny.”

“Call me Bonaparte and I’ll reconsider,” Sherlock warned, dropping his hand and replacing it with his cock. John shuddered. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that?” John pushed back without thinking, making Sherlock grunt.

“You’re just making it easy to read you right now, that’s all. Nothing scary about it. 

“What if I won’t be able to surprise you anymore?” John didn’t want to talk, but he couldn’t stop himself from voicing his thoughts which Sherlock would probably know anyway.

“I think we both know that you are very apt at surprising me,” Sherlock smiled and pushed forward. Just when John thought that he would not be able to keep standing, Sherlock took hold of his hips. He dropped his head forward, smiling at Sherlock’s bent knees. He wouldn’t be able to stand in this position for long or he would be very sore in the morning; and not in places he expected to be.

Sherlock pulled at his hips, causing him to momentarily stand up on his toes, his fingernails scratching across tiles. And then he was all the way inside of him and John felt hot and cold at the same time. One hand wandered up from his hip and pressed against his chest, pulling his back flush against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s other hand let go, too, trusting John to work with him as he wrapped it around his cock. “Oh fuck, Sherlock!”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed against his neck and then started nibbling on his skin. John was sure his system was about to short circuit because there was no way that he could survive this onslaught of feelings. His body didn’t know which way to go. He wanted to push back and get Sherlock to move, but he also wanted to push against his hand so that he would start stroking; and at the same time he desperately wanted him to keep going at his neck.

“Sherlock, please!” He didn’t know what he wanted, but he hoped Sherlock knew – and he didn’t disappoint. Pulling back slowly, he also started moving his left hand, stroking lazily while his right hand found a nipple and squeezed. This was all too much, John thought. Too much and not enough. He had never been treated like this by any lover he had had. Nobody had ever paid this much attention to his body and his needs. He realised that having Sherlock as a lover might easily become the most satisfying aspect of his life; and he would try everything to make him feel equally appreciated; to make him feel like this; indescribably turned on and at the same time perfectly safe.

He let go of the tiles and reached over his head, burying his hands in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gently scraped his teeth along his skin and John shuddered again, drawing a moan from Sherlock. “Please move,” John pleaded when Sherlock pulled out almost all the way while holding his cock gently in his hand. “Please, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock laughed, silently, but John could feel it and he pressed back, causing Sherlock to slip all the way in again. “Yes,” John hissed, rolling his hips a bit, feeling Sherlock’s hand tighten around him. “Come on,” he encouraged him, moving forward and then back again, trying to make Sherlock move. And eventually he did; and John almost lost his footing. From one second to the next his body jerked and twisted, trying to escape and at the same time intensify the multitude of sensations Sherlock was sending through him. He was beyond words now, and Sherlock started biting harder, making John yell in pain and pleasure, pressing against him nevertheless, wanting more.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away and pressed his forehead between his shoulder blades, moving faster, the hand on John’s chest falling down to grab his hips again, and then Sherlock came; a wordless cry mingling with John’s moan as he put his hand over Sherlock’s, making him pump faster and harder. It took him only seconds to follow Sherlock into orgasm and he felt his grip loosen. Afraid that Sherlock might fall like he had earlier, he grabbed his wrists and held on tight, making sure Sherlock stayed upright while he himself didn’t know how he was still able to stand up. 

Several minutes passed and neither of them moved. When Sherlock was soft again he slipped out, but they ignored the condom which Sherlock eventually pulled off and dropped into the water. John cleared his throat and finally turned around, kissing Sherlock hard and for a long time. Then he let go and unplugged the tub, fishing the condom out of the water, flinging it into the sink. Sherlock snorted and reached around John to turn on the water again. They took their time this time and Sherlock spent minutes soaping John’s arse up, claiming that he wanted to make sure that he’d wash away the lube, slipping his finger back inside every now and then, making John protest; but he didn’t stop him. 

Finally it felt silly to spend more time in the shower, so they moved things to the bed. Having spent more time kissing each other than drying off, they were still slightly wet when they crawled under the covers. The moon was still as bright as it had been the nights before, and this time John was determined to see what Sherlock’s skin looked like in the silver light. So he pulled the sheets away from him and smiled at his protest. “Let me look at you,” he said gently, running a hand over his chest. He gave himself some time to think about their lovemaking. “That was extraordinary.”

Sherlock watched him as John let his eyes wander over his body. “I’m glad you think so.”

John smiled and leaned down over him, kissing the scar on his hip. “I’m not afraid anymore,” he said quietly. Sherlock’s fingers brushed through his hair. John was glad that he didn’t see Sherlock’s face, because he knew that the emotion showing on it would have embarrassed Sherlock had John watched him at this moment. “Maybe I do want a ring,” he was thinking aloud now, unable to stop himself. “I don’t think we’d have a ceremony or anything like that, but I’d like something visible.”

Sherlock gently pulled at his hair, making him look up. “Okay.”

“Okay,” John bit his lip and smiled, watching as Sherlock mirrored the expression.

Then he moved to lie next to him and they fell asleep quickly, their fingers intertwined.

***

They checked out under the grinning faces of several hotel staff members. They both pretended to not notice, but John knew that even Sherlock couldn’t ignore their expressions. But when nobody said anything, he decided that it couldn’t have been too bad, so he kissed Sherlock briefly before taking his bag and walked out into the early spring sunshine with a wide smile.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluff. Basically. And yet there's method in it ;)

The train entered the station in the early afternoon and just as Anthea had promised, a car was waiting for them. What neither of them had expected was that Mycroft was in the car as well, his face carefully blank; but even John could tell that he looked pleased. Whether he was pleased with himself or with Sherlock John couldn’t tell.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. Instead he focused his attention on John, which made him slightly uncomfortable. Mycroft probably knew about every single detail of their holiday, but John still felt that he was safer if he didn’t let his infatuation with Sherlock show; not for his own sake, but to keep Mycroft from mocking Sherlock, no matter how lovingly. He shifted in his seat and then felt himself blush when he clearly felt last night’s activities in his muscles. 

“I gather your little honeymoon was satisfactory,” Mycroft smiled for a split second, “and that you have quite recovered?” He didn’t look at either of them. 

“It went well,” Sherlock said. “What do you need my help with?”

“Well, your holiday spirit has disappeared quickly.”

Sherlock didn’t react, but his silence spoke loudly. John pressed his leg against Sherlock’s. 

“We have a possible abduction of a double agent. Charles Archibald Chesterton.”

“Is that his real name?” John grinned and then shook his head. “It probably isn’t, is it?”

“It is, one of many,” Mycroft smirked.

“Details,” Sherlock seemed impatient, and John could understand him perfectly well. If this was a case that interested him, he would be glad to get started as soon as possible. And he was apparently desperate enough to not initially say no just to annoy Mycroft. John wondered whether he should feel guilty, but decided that after last night he would never regret keeping Sherlock from working if Sherlock was willing to be distracted. 

“His wife has reported him missing.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock sounded extremely disappointed. “The options are rather limited, aren’t they?”

“We have lost contact.”

“Was he on the job?”

“They are always on the job,” Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “It seems that your interest in mysteries has been dampened a bit.”

“It’s not a mystery,” Sherlock complained and John hoped that Mycroft would hand over a folder with the file soon so that Sherlock could get reading instead of trying to find excuses. Why he was trying to find excuses in the first place was beyond him. “And I don’t like mysteries.”

“Well, I’ll send you the file. Maybe after you have satisfied other urges, you will find it in you to look into the matter.”

Sherlock shot daggers at him and John felt the strong urge to move away from Sherlock. 

“Just because you are the first to see me, it does not mean that I give your little case priority while Lestrade or some other desperate individual might have a more interesting case for me to solve.”

“You are aware that DI Lestrade would have contacted you if he had been in need of your services.”

“My phone is switched off,” Sherlock admitted sheepishly and John couldn’t help but smile, “as is John’s.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with something like genuine worry and John decided that it was now definitely time to be included in the decision making, because it was obvious that Mycroft would not let Sherlock get away with a rejection. He never did. 

“Sherlock, we could see if you can find him. You said that it’s obvious, so you might as well ...” 

Sherlock looked at John with an expression that he couldn’t quite read; but which did something to his stomach. 

“Are you siding with Mycroft?”

John grinned and leaned in a bit closer. “Tell him about your fond memories.”

“Now you’re playing unfair.” Sherlock sniffed, but apart from that he remained where he was. 

“I’m just trying to establish some sort of common ground here,” he defended himself. 

“The round table, is it? Interesting metaphor, John,” Mycroft smiled and John felt a bit disturbed by how genuine it seemed. 

“See, you both remember the same things,” John smiled at Sherlock who, as his brother grew brighter, grew more and more agitated. 

“I think we can come to some sort of agreement?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head to stress his unwillingness and John wondered if they would ever be able to have a proper conversation without turning into children.

“I could make you.”

“If you kidnap John you will not survive it.” Sherlock seemed genuinely upset now and John wondered what he had started without realising. Mycroft’s eyes were cold when he met Sherlock’s gaze. “It is in your hands.”

“Guys, can we maybe not talk about me being kidnapped?” John tried to lighten the mood, but they were already close to Baker Street and he feared that whatever was going on between the brothers could not be so easily fixed. 

“Make sure Sherlock will look into this, will you?” Mycroft smiled sourly and John knew that his reaction would determine whether the atmosphere at home would be calm or horrible. 

“Sherlock?” John looked at him and found him looking back at him with a strange fear in his eyes. “He wouldn’t.” Then he looked at Mycroft, speaking calmly and determined, “You wouldn’t. And if Sherlock doesn’t want to, I will not try to persuade him.”

“Loyal to the last. Well, I’m glad he has someone whose opinion matters to him. He was quite unpredictable with only his own to listen to. Well, off you go.”

The car stopped and Sherlock was out of it before John had had the chance to answer Mycroft. “I suppose I’ll see you soon. But don’t think that I’ll try to persuade him.”

“Oh, you will, whether you want to or not.” Mycroft seemed quite sure of himself and John felt that it was now definitely time to leave.

“Well, thank you for giving us a ride home.”

Mycroft nodded and smiled at him. “Thank you for making it incredibly easy to pressure him.”

John blinked and then rushed out of the car in case Mycroft decided to kidnap him there and then, just to make a point. Sherlock had already carried their luggage inside, but as John closed the door behind him, he came down the stairs again. 

“Did you forget something?” John asked, wondering if he had left anything in the car. But Sherlock shook his head and jumped down the last three steps, and crowded him against the wall. 

“Welcome home,” he murmured and kissed him. 

John smiled into the kiss, amazed that Sherlock apparently had not let Mycroft ruin his mood. He figured it couldn’t hurt to get rid of their coats, so he started fumbling with Sherlock’s until he let go of him and shrugged out of it. Sherlock unzipped John’s coat, his hands immediately slipping under his jumper and shirt, making John moan into the kiss.

“Were you just in a bad mood because Mycroft was keeping you from touching me?”

“We should have taken a cab. It would have been much more convenient.”

“If by convenient you mean that we’d both get arrested because I’d give you a blowjob in the back of the car ...”

“Yes,” Sherlock grinned and kissed him again. Then John suddenly felt himself swept off his feet as Sherlock picked him up and started carrying him upstairs. 

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? Let me walk!”

“No,” Sherlock navigated them both around the corner and started on the second set. 

“Sherlock!” John held on to him tightly, but he could feel Sherlock shake a bit.

They reached the flat and Sherlock kicked the door to the living room open and carried him inside where he let go of his legs and gently put him down, pulling him into a hug.

And John finally understood what he had been doing. He kissed Sherlock, but then pushed him away a bit, lifting an eyebrow in a manner which he hoped looked challenging. “So I am the bride, am I?”

Sherlock grinned and shrugged. “You’re much smaller than me. Be glad that I didn’t make you wear a dress.” 

John giggled and kissed him again. “You’re sickeningly romantic. And something tells me you did not look this up on the internet.”

“Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock admitted, blushing a bit. 

“Mrs Hudson told you about this?”

“She also had the shower fixed.”

“And when were you making all of those arrangements?”

“Telegrams.”

“Fuck off.”

“I sent them from the hotel when you slept.”

“I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“What, send telegrams?” Sherlock frowned, clearly unsure whether he should be offended; his frown growing deeper when John giggled. 

“From the hotel, Sherlock. They seemed more like the internet-using kind.”

“Right. Tea?” Sherlock stepped out of John’s reach and started going through the letters which Mrs Hudson had piled up on their table. John quietly stepped behind him, leaning against the lean body in front of him, his arms pulling him against his chest. 

“In a minute. I just need to hold you for one more moment before you’re off in your work.”

“John!” Sherlock’s hands closed over his, pressing lightly. “I won’t disappear.”

“And I don’t want to keep you from your work.” He nuzzled Sherlock’s neck and then pulled back. Sherlock reluctantly let him go.

John made tea and watched as Sherlock let it go cold, engrossed in a letter he had received. Somehow, he felt that he should be upset by it, but it was strangely comforting to see him back in his habit. So he decided to unpack, do the laundry, sort out the dry cleaning and pop out for some food shopping. He carried his bag into his room, smiling at the fresh sheets. Mrs Hudson would be in for some proper thank you; maybe he and Sherlock could take her to a concert in the Royal Opera House or treat her to fancy dinner. Upending his bag onto the floor John started sorting his things. He didn’t want to do the same to Sherlock’s bag; not because he would mind doing it in general, but because it felt like it wasn’t his place to do so; and he never knew what Sherlock had packed that he wasn’t supposed to see. 

For a moment he stopped moving, staring at the mess on the floor. Suddenly he wanted to have a proper look inside Sherlock’s bag. Maybe the phones hadn’t been the only thing Sherlock had worried about him finding back in Winchester. Sorting his clothes into piles half-heartedly, he found himself unable to stop thinking about this. He made his way downstairs again where Sherlock lay on the couch, eyes closed, the letter resting on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. 

“Sherlock?” John wanted to at least give him a fair warning. “I’m going to do the laundry. Do you mind if I unpack your bag?”

Sherlock didn’t respond; at least not until John had Sherlock’s bag in hand and was about to go upstairs with it. “You could just ask, you know?”

John stopped mid-step and looked back at Sherlock, who for some reason had moved a bit so that his head was hanging off the couch and he looked at him from upside down. 

“Ask what?” John tried to at least pretend that Sherlock didn’t know what all of this was about. 

“About rings.”

John wasn’t sure whether it was healthy for his heart to beat this fast. 

“They’re not in there.”

For a moment, he just felt disappointed, but then he realised that Sherlock implied that there were rings; only not in Sherlock’s bag.

“Where are they, then?” John wanted to drop the bag, but thought that since he was doing it anyway he could just as well sort out Sherlock’s laundry, too. 

“John.” Sherlock still remained in the position he was in, his head slowly turning red as it filled with blood. 

“Sherlock, if you have rings ...” It was probably the least romantic thing he could do, but just the thought that Sherlock had actually given the idea some thought and got rings made it impossible for him to stay calm. 

“They’re not exactly rings,” Sherlock admitted, finally lifting his head and turning so that he was sitting on the couch again, “because I know at least three dozen individuals who would find it to be the pinnacle of their careers to mock me for wearing one.”

John did drop the bag then and walked up to Sherlock, sitting down next to him. “They’d get over it eventually, though.” He felt a bit shy all of the sudden, not knowing where Sherlock would go next. 

Sherlock smiled and kissed him gently. Then he stood up and opened the case of his violin. He pulled out the little sachet in which he kept his extra strings and moved back to the couch, looking down at the white envelope in his hands. “I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate,” he started, but John knew better than to make him doubt. 

He touched Sherlock’s face and made him meet his eyes. “I won’t,” he said, kissing him with trembling lips. 

When he moved away, he could see that Sherlock’s eyes were glistening with unspilled tears, and he inhaled deeply, not wanting to turn this into something which they might both find embarrassing later. 

Sherlock opened the sachet and two cuffs – not unlike medical bracelets with a small clasp –  
slipped out of it. They were slim silver bands, their surface frosted and unassuming. John looked down on them, wondering if he could risk looking at Sherlock now. Somehow he didn’t feel brave enough.

“Your left,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice the tiniest bit shaky, and John lifted his arm and let Sherlock close one of them around his wrist, the metal cold against his skin where Sherlock’s fingers almost burned them. 

“How long?” John finally made himself ask, wondering what Sherlock would have done if he had never reached the decision that he wanted something visible to show that they belonged to each other. 

Sherlock smiled and handed John the other one, offering his left wrist. John bit his lip as he opened and closed it, feeling Sherlock’s racing pulse against his fingertips. 

“Since I knew you were alive,” he then said, exhaling noisily. “I got them after I found you and I knew you’d be safe.” 

“After the bridge?” John frowned, wondering whether Sherlock had slept at all that night.

“After I found you in Caliban Tower. I couldn’t give it to you before the case was solved. I thought ...,” he stopped, biting his lip with more force now; hard enough to draw blood. 

“Sherlock!” John took his hand and squeezed gently. “It’s okay.”

“I thought that if I gave it to you, and it would be too soon, it would ... I would have to bury you ...,” he stopped again, and looked away from John, trying to breathe evenly. Somehow he managed to calm down again, but when he looked at John, his eyes were blazing. “I was so glad to finally have you back; giving it to you would have felt like a parting gift. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it felt as if it would mean that you wouldn’t come back. Like dog tags, they would have brought me your wallet and this. I just couldn’t.”

John had no words. This was new; Sherlock being superstitious and so emotion driven was so completely out of the norm that he didn’t know how to react. Eventually he nodded. “I promise that you’ll never get this back,” he said quietly, running his fingers over the silver, feeling touched in a way he had never experienced before. 

Sherlock pulled him forcefully into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly, and breathing deeply until he had calmed down again and John knew that he had found the words which Sherlock had needed to hear. 

That night Sherlock came to bed just before dawn, and even though John wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with him, he was now awake and needed to use the toilet. As he washed his hands, he looked down on the bracelet; the only piece of jewellery he had ever been given by a lover. With shaking fingers, he unclasped it and held it up so that he could read the inscription on the inside.

It took up half of the inner band and read _Le Coer 2010/01/29-51°31'02.4"N 0°06'02.6"W_. John felt his vision blur. For a long time he sat on the rim of the bathtub and cried silently; for Sherlock, and for happiness and for pain. When he finally calmed down again and felt ready to go back to bed, he washed his face but had to repeat the process several times, because there were always fresh tears. It was growing light outside when he slipped back into bed, kissed Sherlock’s sleeping face and wrapped himself around the only man in the world who was stupid and brave enough to love him so unconditionally.


	4. Chapter Four

“John?” Sherlock sounded concerned. The realisation made John open his eyes, which he had just convinced himself wouldn’t open for another hour. “John!”

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“You look terrible.”

John chuckled and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “Thanks.” He rubbed his face and found that it was wet. “What ...?” 

“Are you feeling alright?” Judging from the way Sherlock looked at him, John really must have looked horrible.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He wiped his face, wondering whether Sherlock had found him crying in his sleep when he had woken up.

“You ...” Sherlock’s fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket. “You cried.”

“Apparently.” He sat up, feeling a headache sneaking up on him. “I guess I never really stopped.”

Sherlock looked a bit lost. So what else could he do but explain to him that he had spent half an hour bawling his eyes out because he was so touched by Sherlock’s gift. Even as he talked about it, his eyes filled with tears again, and he shook his head to clear it. “I’m okay. I don’t know why I’m crying so much. Reflex I guess,” he laughed and wiped his face again, inhaling deeply. “I’ll stop eventually,” he promised.

“And you’re sure it’s just because ... of the cuff?” 

John nodded, fascinated that apparently Sherlock couldn’t quite grasp the concept of being this touched by something. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to make him a gift that meant as much to him as this one did to John. 

“What’s on yours?” he asked, finally composed enough to be sure that the tears would stay away now. 

“I’d rather not ...” Sherlock bit his lip which was still red at the spot where he had worried it the day before, but then stretched out his arm, offering his wrist to John.

But John shook his head. “Tell me when you’re ready.” He stretched and was about to untangle himself from the sheets when Sherlock frowned at him. “I didn’t want to make you cry,” he said quietly. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you idiot,” he smiled and pulled Sherlock forcefully into his arms. “I cried because I was happy. Because I am happy.”

“But you cried in your sleep.”

John grinned and placed one hand on Sherlock’s chest, pressing against it until Sherlock lay down. “I woke up when you came to bed,” he kissed his chin, “and then decided to check whether there was anything engraved.” He kissed his way down to his chest. “And then I just cried, because I’m a sentimental wimp.”

Sherlock hugged him against his chest. “You’re my sentimental wimp,” he declared with a smile. “Lestrade will be so happy to know that now I have made everyone in my immediate proximity cry.”

“You never made Mycroft cry,” John argued, closing his eyes and nuzzling Sherlock’s chest, wondering whether Greg Lestrade had ever cried because of him. Somehow, he didn’t want to ask, as he knew he wouldn’t be comfortable with the answer.

“He was the first one I made cry,” Sherlock chuckled. “But it wasn’t out of happiness. I don’t think I’ve ever made anybody cry out of happiness.”

“Yes you have,” John lifted his head to be able to look at Sherlock’s face. “Countless times.”

“When? I can’t recall any situation in which I caused someone to cry other than because I told them the truth they didn’t want to hear.”

John moved off of him, coming to lie on his back, but facing Sherlock, who looked slightly taken aback by the thought that he should have caused happiness. “You don’t pay attention to anything that happens after you solved a case; and if you do, you delete everything. The times you made sure people returned home safely; the times when you could prove that someone was not guilty of a crime that would have ripped them from their families. Sherlock, you’ve made so many people happy.” He sighed at Sherlock’s sceptical expression. “I know you don’t care about it, and most of the time you don’t even want to know about it; but you are a good man. You do extraordinary things and when you save a life, even if it’s just because you find a case interesting or challenging, you’re still their hero. You’re still my hero.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly, frowning at John, clearly wanting to object; but then he just kept looking at him for a long time. 

“I don’t do it for them,” Sherlock finally said, sounding disappointed in himself; as if he wasn’t quite able to figure out a mystery that felt as if it should be obvious to solve. 

“You do it. That’s what counts. And I don’t believe that you are that self centred. In fact, I know that you are not.” And before Sherlock could protest, John kissed him. And he kissed him until he stopped trying to argue with him. It took a long time, but John finally found out that it was indeed possible to have the last word around Sherlock, if one was just persistent enough to kiss him until he forgot what the issue had been.

“I’m starving,” John finally said when Sherlock had grown responsive and very quiet. “Come on, let’s have breakfast.”

Breakfast was amazingly normal. Sherlock wore his pyjamas and dressing gown and talked while John, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt ate his toast in silence, and only when John had had his second cup of tea did he stop him, asking him to eat his toast. Sherlock obeyed, although John could tell that he wasn’t very hungry. “You didn’t sleep much,” John finally noted, watching Sherlock roll his eyes at him. 

“I was busy.”

“I know. You’re taking Mycroft’s case, aren’t you? And you knew about it. It wasn’t coincidence that we met Natalia in Winchester, was it?”

Sherlock’s affronted face at John’s suggestion at taking Mycroft’s case was replaced by a small proud smile. “I didn’t want you to think that I was working on something new.”

“Sherlock,” John frowned, more at himself than at Sherlock.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” He could see he had lost Sherlock, who had been entirely ready to throw himself into an argument. “I know I have been egoistic. I know that I have made you feel guilty about working, because I wanted you to pay attention to me. I’ll try to get better, I promise.”

“John. You are perfectly entitled to be annoyed.”

“No, I’m not. I knew what I was getting myself into. I’ve always known how you are and how you work.”

“Of course you are. We’re in a relationship,” Sherlock pronounced the word carefully, making John smile despite himself, “and, if I can rely on my sources, I have to be willing to make compromises, too.”

“It’s not a compromise if I ask you to neglect your work, which is so important to you, just because I am suddenly very attracted to you.”

“Something which you cannot control,” Sherlock pointed out, a shadow of a smile on his lips. 

“Yes, but still. You’re not like other people. And I know how you are. It’s not going to work if I can’t make myself respect that.”

“So you’d rather be annoyed with me than have me be annoyed with you. That doesn’t sound very sensible.”

John pulled a face and looked at Sherlock a bit helplessly. 

“John. If you want me to pay attention to you, you have to tell me. I’ll get annoyed, but I get annoyed at everything and everyone all the time. And I know that when I am on a case, I will not be very cooperative. But keep trying,” he folded his hands and looked at John calmly. “I promise I’ll keep you from working as well.” 

John had to chuckle, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock’s hands. “Just to make sure that I understand you correctly,” he sniffed. “I am allowed to be annoyed, and you’ll be allowed to be annoyed at me being annoyed. And then we have sex.”

Sherlock grinned lopsidedly, and caught John’s hand in his. “John. I trust you to make sure that you take what you need. I know I don’t always make it easy,” he watched as John raised an eyebrow, “usually don’t make it easy for you, but I know that you are not going to sit around and sulk. You wouldn’t still be here if you felt that you couldn’t deal with me. So please don’t lose trust in your own patience.”

“Can I make requests?” John leaned closer across the table.

“Not unreasonable ones.”

“You eat.”

“Depends.”

“So that’s a no?”

“No. But it’s not a yes, either.”

“I am allowed to kiss you whenever I want.”

Sherlock grinned and leaned closer as well. “Only if I can kiss you whenever I want, too.”

“Shit,” John murmured, making Sherlock snort. “I know you won’t agree on any exceptions to the rule.”

Sherlock shrugged with a grin. “Your call.”

John bit his lip. “I think I’ll risk it.”

“Good,” Sherlock grinned wickedly and John felt his cheeks flush. “What about touching,” he enquired, making John’s blush deepen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“We’re not just talking about being at the Yard.”

“Are we not?”

“No.”

“But you’re already thinking about teasing me at the Yard or in the shops or …”

“And what are you doing?” his grin was making John uncomfortable. “Since we started talking about this your pulse has picked up speed and you are very obviously aroused. And the cause for that is not our physical proximity, at least not exclusively, but your imagination. Be honest, you secretly want me to surprise you. The thought of me touching you inappropriately in public arouses you. In fact, it turns you on so much that you’d rather forbid it than have me fulfil your fantasies.”

John shivered involuntarily, being both excited and slightly worried by how easily Sherlock read him. “The real reason why you do not want me to touch you in public is that you know you’d not be able to resist me; not anymore.” Sherlock let go of his hand and got up, walking around the table to stand behind John. “You’d be unable to keep up that façade of the controlled,” he leaned down and kissed John’s neck, drawing a low moan from him, “responsible,” he bit his ear lobe, “and polite personality that you’ve created for yourself.” 

He placed his hands on John’s shoulders and squeezed. “You would lose control in a situation in which you always remain calm and controlled. You’re always the one who does the right thing, the polite and acceptable thing. People like you, because you are faultless,” he let his hands wander down and across John’s chest. “And if I started touching you, you would forget what you are supposed to be like, and become that person that only I know.” 

He pulled at the t-shirt until it revealed his stomach. “The John who takes control, but in such a different way than any of them would expect. The John who takes me apart, and who is fearless and so very much not polite,” Sherlock hands flattened against John’s stomach, his thumbs stroking across his sensitive skin. John held his breath. He realised that Sherlock had made sure that John couldn’t see his face; and he found it endearing that a few things were still out of his comfort zone, but that he had found a way to talk to John like this without feeling too shy about it.

And Sherlock was right. It would be so wrong to touch Sherlock inappropriately and to be touched by him; but the thought made him sweat. The image of Sherlock standing behind him, squeezing his arse; or worse, doing something like he had done in Winchester when he had simply slipped his hand into his trousers made Johns heart hammer against his ribs. 

He couldn’t allow this, especially because Sherlock was right. He couldn’t trust himself to keep his cool; not when the thought alone took his breath away. But what if he wanted to touch Sherlock? Surely there would be moments when he wouldn’t be able to control his hands; when the urge to touch him would override his better judgement and he would not be able to hold back?

“No,” he said, sounding the opposite of convinced. “Let’s at least try,” he inhaled deeply when Sherlock moved his hands up to his chest and squeezed lightly, “okay?”

“Alright. I’ll wait until you break the rule.” Sherlock pulled at the t-shirt until John helped him get rid of it. “But once you break it …” He didn’t have to finish the sentence and John nodded vaguely. 

“Why did we start talking about my fantasies again?” John scrunched up his face, making Sherlock laugh as he watched him from the side. 

“Oh, there’s so much more to find out yet,” Sherlock promised, making John shiver again. 

He swallowed and turned his head to look at him. “Like what?”

“Like how to close the door to your flat.” Lestrade voice came from somewhere behind them. 

John closed his eyes, hoping to God that his erection would disappear quickly and that Sherlock, who had straightened up and turned around wasn’t sporting one either.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said by way of greeting, and John could imagine the frown on Greg Lestrade's face, because Sherlock hadn’t yet said anything offensive. To keep it that way, John turned around. “Hello Greg. I didn’t know you’d come by.”

“Just popping in to see how you are,” Lestrade smiled. He looked much better than the last time John had seen him, and he hoped that it was true the other way around, too. He hadn’t really paid attention to his own health this past week, despite doctors’ orders. 

“We’re fine,” John smiled and waved at him. “Sit, I’ll get you a cuppa, if you’ve got time.”

“Day off again. Thank Christ.” He sat down opposite of John and grinned, first at him, then at Sherlock. “You two do look like you’ve been out on some … adventures.”

“Yes, we’ve had sex,” Sherlock clarified, sounding not quite as irritated as John would have expected. Just as John wanted to get up, Sherlock handed him his t-shirt and pressed him back down into his chair. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning to watch Sherlock carefully. “You okay?”

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that John was talking to him, and he seemed irritated by his enquiry. “Fine. So how have the cases treated you?” He turned to look at Lestrade while he filled the kettle. “Haven’t slept much, I see.”

Instead of being annoyed, Lestrade grinned at him. “You have no idea how relaxing it was to know that you were safely tucked away in Winchester.”

“Wait, are you saying you were glad I couldn’t help you?”

“I am good at my job, Sherlock,” Lestrade said calmly. “I know that you don’t believe it, but I do happen to be able to solve a few cases without your help.” Sherlock switched off the kettle before the water had boiled, and John held his breath to see how Greg would react. “It was good to know you two had some space,” he added, not showing any reaction to Sherlock’s passive aggressive act. “Seems like it was the right decision to have you take some time off, even if you still worked.”

With a glance at John, Sherlock switched the kettle back on. 

“You married now?” Lestrade asked, nodding at the cuffs on both of their wrists. “And I thought I was rushing it when I married my wife after six months.”

“I won’t cheat on him, though,” Sherlock pointed out, and John reached out to touch his hip, saying calmly, “Sherlock, enough.”

“Right,” Lestrade frowned, but soon a whimsical smile grew on his lips. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Sherlock warned, transforming the smile into a challenging grin. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Lestrade said, raising his arms in mock surrender. 

John sighed and started putting on his t-shirt again. Somehow he felt that he should be more upset about being interrupted in what would have undoubtedly turned into sex had Lestrade not appeared. But he was happy to see him, because somehow he belonged to his normality just as much as Sherlock did. A strange thought.

“So what do you need my help with?” Sherlock eventually asked, putting a cup of tea in front of Lestrade and another one in front of John, who found that he couldn’t stop smiling for a long time after. 

“Some strange letters. Warnings. Not sure what to do with them. I’ve been told to leave them be; but it doesn’t mean that I can’t have you look into it.”

“Are you scared I might get bored?” Sherlock asked, sounding as if he knew that Lestrade’s case was more or less a ruse to get him to work on something which would not require risking his life. 

“You’ll want that case, though,” the DI said, sounding convinced. 

“What’s in those letters?”

“It seems as if someone is threatening to destroy an amusement park. We don’t know which one and we don’t know why, but I have a strange gut feeling about this and I definitely do not want hundreds of people getting injured just because I’ve been told to let it rest.”

“Why do you think I’d be interested?”

“Because a certain name pops up in there.”

“A certain name?”

“Does Moriarty ring a bell?” Lestrade leaned back and watched Sherlock. 

“He’s dead.”

“So your brother says,” the DI studied Sherlock carefully, and not for the first time John thought that they communicated on a level that was a mystery to him; as if Lestrade had some sort of leverage which he could use against Sherlock without John ever figuring out what it was.

“Send me the file.”

“Thank you!” Lestrade got up, but then took the tea and drank the entire cup without stopping once. “And thanks for the tea. Now I’ll let you two get back to … whatever it was that I interrupted when I came in.”

“We’ll have to ask Mrs Hudson to not let you in, again,” Sherlock remarked drily. 

“That, or we’ll have to charge you for the show,” John said with a grin, enjoying Sherlock’s slightly scandalised expression. 

“Right,” Lestrade laughed. “I’ll be off.”

John got up and followed him down the stairs. “You’re alright? Did you get some sleep while we were gone?”

“I got a lot of shit from people above me, but it was seriously nice to know that you two were away from it all for a while. My wife told me that I’d probably worry more about you two than my kids, if we had any.”

“He’s doing okay, I think.”

“And you? We’ll pay for counselling if you need it.”

“I’m alright. My therapist would run the other way if I showed up there now.”

“He’s very tame at the moment.”

John giggled. “Tame, well. He hasn’t settled in yet. I think it’s just a matter of hours until he’s right back to who he was before we left.”

“He’s changed properly, though. He even looks different now. He holds himself differently. I think you’ve finally managed the impossible and changed him for the better.” He shrugged. “I’ll not keep you. I don’t want him to think that we’re talking about him behind his back.” 

John smiled. He knew that Sherlock wouldn’t mind the talk about him as much as the fact that Lestrade had seen him shirtless and aroused.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in London for the next 7 days, and I probably won't be posting next week, because I'm incredibly busy at work and will have to catch up on things when I come back. 
> 
> Thank you SO much if you have commented. Every word of feedback inspires me to write more <3

Sherlock didn’t say a word when John came back. He was typing away on his laptop, his phone on the table next to him. John smiled and walked past him, gently touching Sherlock’s neck as he walked by, feeling strangely happy about it all. 

“You were being nice,” John eventually remarked, picking up his tea.

Sherlock shrugged. “I wanted to surprise him.”

“You didn’t have a single bad word to say to him. Christ, you’re turning into one of those nice guys.” John snorted into his tea, watching Sherlock’s features darken. 

“Don’t mock me. Not you.”

“I love you,” John answered, watching the rainbow of emotions on Sherlock’s face. He finally settled on slightly confused.

“Are we done with breakfast?” Sherlock eventually asked, apparently unwilling to discuss the issue further. When John shrugged he got up and walked out. 

John sighed and started clearing the table when Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the door, looking at him for a second before he gently took his face between his hands and kissed him. “I love you, even if you mock me.” Then he turned around and walked back into the living room. 

The sincerity of Sherlock’s words made his heart flutter and he smiled and busied himself taking stock of the surprisingly full cupboards. He found the various receipts which Mrs Hudson had left for them on the counter and he placed a post-it on top of them, writing any favour she asks for, ever, will be granted! He hoped Sherlock would get the message, but he would make sure to see if he could be of any help at all. He didn’t know where they would be without her.

When he came into the living room, he found Sherlock sitting on the floor surrounded by various photos and sheets of paper that looked old enough to have come from a Victorian novel.

“Where did you get those? Did Greg just leave them here?” John asked and sat down on the couch, allowing himself a private moment watching Sherlock distractedly scratching his neck. 

Sherlock stretched and then let himself fall backwards. The grimace on his face told John that Sherlock wasn’t quite as much into the case as Lestrade and Mycroft had hoped for him to be. “He did. He knew I would ask for the file, annoying git.” He made a face that was probably supposed to show his annoyance but to John it just looked cute. Sherlock scowled at his grin. “No trace of Moriarty. More like a cold fish, and old investment that has now come back to bite someone in the arse and I am not sure whether I want to know whose arse, because if it’s my brother’s then I am going back on vacation in Winchester. Or no, let’s actually go to Australia. No, not Australia, his meddling hands reach that far. The Congo.”

“Tea?” John offered, trying very hard not to laugh. 

“Please, and then come and kiss me because I need to reboot my mind.”

“Your wish is my command, Data,” John chuckled and made his way into the kitchen, while Sherlock was left looking slightly confused at the spot where John had just sat. 

“It’s boring. The case is boring. Mycroft is punishing me. And I don’t even understand why!”

“Phone box sex?” John offered and plopped two tea bags into cups. 

“Oh come on. Nobody would have used that box anyway. People have cell phones. It also wasn’t technically sex.”

John laughed and leaned against the counter, watching Sherlock work through his anger at being used by his brother.

“You could always say no, you know that, right”

“And risk having you kidnapped by his minions? I don’t think so.” He stood up, only to close his eyes and shake his head for a second before he moved into the kitchen to sit down at the table. 

John had to smile at the bittersweet memories Sherlock’s physical reaction to rising quickly triggered. “Can I help?”

“You can look through the histories of all the theme parks in Britain and try to find out why Moriarty could have any interest in rollercoasters.”

“Could be fun,” he offered, pouring the boiling water into the cups and adding milk. 

“I swear that I will exchange his whisky with apple juice at the Diogenes Club if this is just a measure to keep me busy.”

“Wow. Cruel,” John giggled and put the cups down on the table. “Now, about that kiss…”

Sherlock remained seated and merely raised his chin a little. 

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re my doctor. I need my medicine.”

“You know that this is not the right way to approach this?”

“Why?”

“Because you have to stop giving everything in our lives a second meaning.”

Sherlock grinned and ruffled his own hair. “Do I?” 

How he managed to go from petulant to seductive in no time at all would always remain a mystery to John. In any case, he found himself quite helpless at Sherlock’s smile and he wondered whether Sherlock’s reboot would require more than a kiss. 

“I’m not going to kiss you like this,” John pointed out and sipped his tea. 

Sherlock’s face fell and his expression threatened to turn into a full on pout. John wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He had been asked by both Mycroft and Lestrade to solve their cases and it appeared that he wasn’t even interested in trying. 

“Explain why you need to be distracted.”

“Simple trick,” Sherlock explained, sounding a lot more serious than he had in the last five minutes. “I need to trick my body into believing that it is relaxed so my mind can take a step back and approach it from a different perspective. I’ve zoomed in too far and now I can’t manoeuvre myself out of that position. I mean, I could, but since you’re here …”

“That makes a lot of sense. I thought you’d start making something up about chemical imbalance …”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, clearly expecting their discussion to be over. “Kiss?”

John laughed and walked around the table, but instead of leaning over he stepped behind him and pulled on the chair until Sherlock sat a good two feet away from the table. He could see that his little stunt had definitely affected Sherlock; and he grinned when he sat down on his lap. 

“Now,” he smiled and shifted a bit, watching Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “System reboot, hmm? How do I do this?” Then he pushed his hands into Sherlock’s curls and leaned in, closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s for a moment. Then he kissed him, slowly at first, with just lips and sighs and fluttering eye lashes and once Sherlock’s hands settled on his back, he teased his lips open. Sherlock moaned when their lips met and he tugged hard, shifting John’s weight again and John could feel his growing arousal very clearly now.

And then Sherlock took over and John found himself pushed backwards, his own growing erection trapped in his jeans against Sherlock’s stomach and he grunted and tried to push back but Sherlock had the advantage of being able to use John’s weight as leverage. All he could do was hold on to Sherlock’s shoulders and hope that he wouldn’t suddenly fall backwards off the chair onto the edge of the kitchen table. But Sherlock held on tightly and kissed him deeply and John wondered whether going to an amusement park with him would mean that they would get arrested for having sex on one of the rides and suddenly there was a warm hand between them and he felt his zipper opened and the button popped and then there was a hand on his cock and he really couldn’t think of anything else than somehow not falling backwards.

“Sherlock!” he grunted, pushing his hips upwards, threatening the carefully kept balance. “Let me take them off!”

“No,” Sherlock answered with a growl and attacked John’s neck with his lips and teeth and tongue and John bucked up again. This time the chair moved under them and John decided that he wouldn’t risk a concussion just because Sherlock couldn’t control himself. 

He hooked his feet under Sherlock’s calves and grabbed the back of the chair, pushing forward and forcing Sherlock into an upright position. “You said kiss,” he argued when Sherlock looked at him disappointedly. 

“Not good enough for what I need,” he argued and John felt his pride take over. 

“Oh, is it not? Maybe if you had let me do it properly you would already be sitting back on the living room floor between the case files.”

Sherlock looked positively scandalised, as if he couldn’t imagine that John had the audacity to complain while Sherlock was still slowly stroking his cock. But even then he didn’t stop, so John pushed his hand away. 

“John!” 

John couldn’t remember having seen him as confused by something he had done as he looked now. “You asked for a kiss. Then you didn’t even get up from this chair so I could properly kiss you and then you try to take that one away from me?” He leaned in close and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “Not going to happen!”

“Are you trying to discipline me?” Sherlock sounded breathless.

John grinned and nipped at his chin. “If I was trying to discipline you, you wouldn’t have to ask if that was what I was doing.”

“Will you try?” Sherlock was positively panting now and John squeezed himself, unable to not touch when Sherlock was looking at him like that.

“Not now. Not until it becomes necessary.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and John’s knuckles pressed against his erection. “Please, John!”

“What do you want?” John hadn’t imagined for a single second that Sherlock would allow John to take control again; especially not like this. “What is your mind asking for.” 

Sherlock made a high pitched noise which showed his annoyance and arousal at the same time and John moved back, off of his lap and the chair and knelt down. Sherlock automatically moved forward and allowed John to undo his trousers. 

He breathed hot air on Sherlock’s erection, drawing another desperate noise from him. “Tell me.”

“Please!”

“Tell me!”

“John!” 

John bit his thigh, not hard, but Sherlock almost fell off the chair he jerked so hard. 

“Tell me!”

“You mouth, please!”

John huffed out a laugh. He wouldn’t get more out of Sherlock, but this entire scenario was an eye opener. One day he’d get Sherlock to ask for every little step on the way. He let him slide between his lips, his hand at the base of Sherlock’s cock, making sure he wouldn’t buck up into his mouth. Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment and then started panting again. John was too fascinated to pay attention to himself, but once Sherlock’s hands found their way into his hair, he sat up straighter and started stroking himself. His hands were rough and too dry, but he did not want to risk letting go of Sherlock just then, so he kept it up, sucking gently while Sherlock’s expression alone almost made him come. His mouth was slack, half opened and ready to scream if John did anything surprising. His eyes closed tightly and his brows drawn together as if he was in severe pain. 

John stopped for a second to catch his breath, and Sherlock opened his eyes then, watching John sucking him back between his lips and he came. That took John by surprise and he tried his best to keep Sherlock’s hips down, but he didn’t quite manage and for a second he choked and pulled back, spitting and coughing while Sherlock still arched up, his body trembling.

Once he had regained his breath, John went back to sucking him, enjoying the yelps he drew from Sherlock’s lips when he became too sensitive. Eventually he stopped, knowing that he would hurt Sherlock if he kept going and pressed his face against Sherlock’s thigh. Sitting like this, he stroked himself harder, gasping damp air against Sherlock’s flushed skin. 

Sherlock’s hand settled on his cheek and he made him look up at him and that was it. Sherlock looking down on him, looking so wrecked that John wondered whether he had hit upon one of Sherlock’s secret sexual fantasies, his chest rising and falling like he’d take a long time to catch his breath again – John came. He didn’t bother trying to catch anything since he had spit a greater part of Sherlock’s come on the floor anyway. For a few moments they just sat there, Sherlock sprawled on the chair, his hand on John’s head and John, kneeling on the floor between his legs, still holding himself, his hand slick with his own come.

“A kiss, huh?” John finally said, watching Sherlock’s expression change into something more controlled. “God, you looked gorgeous.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock finally said, withdrawing his hand and sitting up straight. Then he smiled and leaned down to kiss John. “It worked. Thank you.”

John looked at him, wondering if he could get Sherlock to return the favour once he’d get frustrated with anything – probably with Sherlock himself.

“Come on, clean up.”

“Are we going somewhere?” 

“We’ll visit Mrs Chesterton,” Sherlock nodded and walked out of the kitchen. John could hear the shower running a few seconds later. With a sigh, he stood up, grimacing at his protesting knees and found that he had managed to avoid spilling on his trousers. He’d still need a shower, though, he decided once he tried to clean himself and the floor.


	6. Chapter Six

Half an hour later they sat in a cab to Chelsea. John hadn’t shaved, which Sherlock immediately noticed, his eyes moving from his eyes to his chin repeatedly while he updated John on the case they were about to investigate. When Sherlock had wrapped his scarf around his neck, John had gently pulled it away to press a kiss against the crook of his neck, and Sherlock made a small sound which sent white heat down John’s back. When he had moved away again, Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed.

In the cab, John grinned to himself, deciding that while Sherlock was on the Chesterton case, he would investigate the case of how much stubble might be too much stubble. He still grinned when they arrived at their destination, earning him an amused look from Sherlock, who then ran his thumb along John’s jaw, smiling to himself. Then he checked his expression, and became someone else and John found that Sherlock’s act helped him immensely to focus on the task at hand. 

The house was large and inviting, curtain-less wide windows offering a view of the ground level rooms; something which seemed impractical, considering that a double agent was living there. But Mr Chesterton was probably never working from home anyway, John reminded himself. He felt silly for the thought and was glad that he hadn’t voiced it, as that would undoubtedly have made Sherlock look at him with that expression which always made John feel sorry for whoever was at the receiving end of it. When he looked up at Sherlock, he was met with exactly that expression. “Fine,” John raised his hands in exasperation, “I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock smirked, gently squeezing his arm. Then he rang the doorbell. 

John’s fingers twitched as he watched Mrs Chesterton give Sherlock a check over when he entered the flat. He seemed oblivious, but John instinctively wanted to make sure that she knew he was taken. Oh, so very much taken. Sherlock had the fantastic timing to look at him then, surprise substituting the nonchalant expression he had carried when he had come in. John noticed a tiny twitch of the corner of his mouth before he turned back to the woman, extending his hand. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“I’m very aware of who you are,” the woman smiled at him prettily, and, leaning closer, she continued, “and it is the greatest pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I understand you have a problem, Mrs Chesterton,” Sherlock ignored her obviously flirtatious manner.

“I do, indeed, Mr Holmes,” she cooed, making John roll his eyes involuntarily. The movement caused the strongest feeling of a déjà vu, and he sobered up, wondering where a similar occasion had caused him to be annoyed with someone who was very obviously coming on to Sherlock. 

“Come in, come in. Can I offer you tea? Dr. Watson?” She turned in the door through which she was positively forcing Sherlock, a hand on his back, pushing. 

“Yes, thank you, tea sounds lovely,” he forced himself to say, still unable to shake off the strange sense of foreboding. As he walked through the door and into the sitting room, he suddenly remembered. Thankfully the couch was close enough for him to sit down and not embarrass himself by weak knees giving in unexpectedly. Jim Moriarty on that fateful day at Barts. He swallowed the bitter taste which suddenly rose in his throat. 

Coincidence, he told himself; this was merely a coincidence. Nevertheless, he suddenly felt extremely suspicious of the woman and it had nothing to do with her flirting with Sherlock. 

“When did your husband … disappear?” The pause was very pronounced. 

“Four days ago.” She fished a biscuit out of a bowl on the table, her décolleté in plain view. John coughed when Sherlock actually looked down, giving her an appreciative and lingering look.

“Has he ever done that before?” Sherlock raised his eyes back to her face, “disappear, I mean. Without leaving a note?”

“No, he hasn’t. Not ever.” Mrs Chesterton started to play with the pearls around her neck. 

“No affairs?” Sherlock leaned back and opened his legs slightly. John was indeed very glad now that he was sitting. Sherlock’s act had successfully chased his dark thoughts away and only left room for a mantra which rushed through his mind. Breathe, just breathe. Do not laugh. Breathe. So he forced himself to breathe calmly, the nails of his thumbs biting into his index fingers where he pressed them to help him stay calm. 

“Oh, he had one or two. But he was painfully obvious about it. We have a very relaxed relationship,” she smiled sweetly and bit a tiny part off the biscuit, licking her lips to pick up the crumbs. John wondered whether he should pretend to get a call so that he could stop watching those two play with each other. 

“I understand,” Sherlock nodded and dragged the tip of his index finger along his lower lip. He sometimes did that unconsciously when he was thinking; and it was one of those things which John enjoyed in secret without letting him know; and to see a display of this little secret pleasure abused so blatantly made him wonder just how much Sherlock paid attention when he thought he did not. John swallowed. His throat was very dry all of the sudden. 

Tea saved his sanity. An elderly lady came in and placed a tea set in front of them. After they had all been served, John noticed that Sherlock had opened a third button on his shirt. Now he was playing unfair. 

“Sherlock,” he started, not exactly wishing for those enquiring eyes to undoubtedly read on his face what they expected to, but to show him that he should tone it down so that John would get through this inquiry alive. He tried to look serious, but he knew that his cheeks were slightly flushed and that his eyes probably told Sherlock just how well he was doing. 

“Yes John?” his face was that of perfect innocence. 

“Aren’t you asking for pictures? Handwritten notes? Something to help us find …”

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled and turned back to Mrs Chesterton. “My colleague is right. Do you have a few pictures of him? Possibly images in which he was not conscious of being photographed? Those are always much more telling.”

“I do, Mr Holmes. Let me just get them for you.” She stood up and made her way over to a little desk and started rummaging through the drawers. John tried to get Sherlock’s attention, waiting to shoot him his ‘what in the world are you doing-look’, but Sherlock was looking around the room and John knew better than to disturb him. At least he knew now that Sherlock found her behaviour as suspicious as he did. 

When she came back, she sat down next to Sherlock and John felt a small jolt of jealousy which didn’t quite go away prickling under his skin. She leaned in close as Sherlock started to look through the images, going at a pace which would make it impossible for John to even distinguish faces; but Sherlock was clearly looking for something. Suddenly he stopped and moved back to a picture he had previously looked at. “John?” he held it out to him and John stood up to take it. 

“Miranda?” he felt slightly ill and he was unable to grasp why these two cases should be connected. Lestrade had mentioned Moriarty, but it couldn’t be this obvious, could it? Sherlock nodded and then dropped his eyes down to the tea just to look back at John. 

He wouldn’t touch the tea then. It seemed impossible that they had ended up in a situation like he had been in two weeks ago and he refused to believe that Mrs Chesterton had anything to do with it; but then again he had had a bad feeling from the start. Sherlock picked up a tea cup and set it to his lips. From where he was standing he could see that Mrs Chesterton watched him carefully. So maybe she was indeed trying to finish what Moriarty hadn’t managed. The sense of foreboding made John’s palms sweat. Suddenly a shadow of the fear was back, the fear that had threatened to overwhelm him down in the concrete lift shaft. He forced himself to concentrate. 

When Sherlock swallowed audibly and set down the cup, her eyes still fixed to his lips and John felt unsure again. Could she possibly just be smitten with Sherlock? He wasn’t used to women being so obvious with their affections, but he could at least understand her. The way he was sometimes mesmerised by single motions of Sherlock’s he shouldn’t be surprised if someone else found themselves in a similar position. 

“Who is that woman?” John had to ask before she decided to accidentally trip and fall against Sherlock’s lips. With a sigh, she turned around and looked at John. 

“Oh, her name isn’t Miranda. Her name is Elsie and she lives with my brother’s family.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “What does Elsie do?” he asked quietly. 

“Oh, she works for the London Times. Literary reviews or something of the sort. Why do you ask?” She sounded suspicious, but John gathered it wasn’t because she knew that something was wrong, but because Sherlock had asked about a girl half her own age. Sherlock shook his head, trying not to look too bemused. 

“Does she have a sister?” Sherlock asked then, and Mrs Chesterton looked positively scandalised. John breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t seem like a criminal master mind after all.

“Do you have a telephone number?” Sherlock continued and started to go through the rest of the images, ignoring her pout. “It might be important for the case,” he offered, when she didn’t respond, looking up and giving her a bright smile. That seemed to calm her down and John decided that he would never feel bad about being single minded again. He was obviously not alone. 

“I do. But please, is there anything helpful here?” 

“To what sum does his life insurance amount?” Sherlock asked, placing the pictures back into her hands, making sure to touch her fingers. 

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Really?” Sherlock seemed very put off all of the sudden. “So you did not kill him?”

John bit his lower lip very hard. Mrs Chesterton turned pale. “Is that what you think?” 

Apparently she had finally caught up with Sherlock’s true character. For a moment John imagined Sherlock going on a blind date and what he had just witnessed would undoubtedly be the outcome, no matter how hard Sherlock would try to impress that person. He coughed again to cover up a laugh. 

“No,” Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “I just wanted to see your reaction.”

How he managed to restore her adoration for him was beyond John. “They said you would help me. They mentioned that your methods are unconventional, but I am sure that you can help. You can find him, can’t you?”

“Elsie,” John reminded her, earning a disapproving look from the flirtatious woman. “Can we get in touch with her?” 

She huffed and got up to get a pen and a scrap of paper. She jotted down a number and pointedly handed it to John. “If you must.” 

“Thank you.” John got up and quietly left the room. He wondered whether she would now make a move on Sherlock. At the same time he suddenly understood Lestrade’s discomfort when he was witnessing them sharing affections. He dialled the number, holding his breath. The young female voice that answered sounded nothing like Miranda. He exhaled slowly. “Miranda?” he asked, “am I speaking to Miranda?”

“Excuse me? Who is this?” 

John swallowed. “Is this not Miranda?”

“No. This is not Miranda. This is Elsie Cavendish.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. I must have the wrong number then.”

“Apparently.”

“My apologies.” He listened, hoping that she would continue to talk. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that, but you have a very pleasant voice, Elsie” he added, clearing his throat nervously. That had her laughing. 

“And who is making compliments to strangers, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

John grinned. “I’m John.”

“Hello John. I am awfully sorry, but I have to go.”

“It was lovely speaking with you, even though you are not Miranda.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

John huffed. “We were … involved.”

“Oh.”

“Professionally,” he added, biting his lip.

“Oh.” She didn’t sound very happy about that one either. 

“At work.” He pronounced ‘work’ very clearly, cringing at how absurd the entire situation was.

“Well, you go and find your Miranda, John. Good bye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Sherlock appeared in the door and gave him a grave look of disapproval. 

“Is that so?” She sounded almost flirtatious again and John shuffled his feet, hoping to look inconspicuous to Sherlock. “Well, you have my number now. In case you don’t find her, you could maybe give me another ring sometime? You have quite a lovely voice yourself.”

John blushed. He couldn’t quite say why. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to receiving compliments from women – or from anyone really – or because Sherlock’s hearing was extraordinary and he probably understood every word she was saying; or maybe it was because of the look he was giving him right then. 

“I have to go now,” he said, looking away from Sherlock. “Good bye, Elsie.” He hung up and carefully placed his phone in his pocket before he looked up at Sherlock. “Not Miranda.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock sounded prim and John wondered whether Sherlock had just felt what he had felt when he saw him interact with Mrs Chesterton. 

“Will you find him?” John was very eager to change the topic. 

“I think so.” With that he turned around and stalked back into the living room where the table was now covered in photograph and leaflets which showed Mr Chesterton at his work place, or, as John suspected, his supposed work place. 

“We’re done here,” Sherlock decided as soon as John had sat down. “I’ll be in touch.”

Mrs Chesterton was unhappy to see him leave, but her cheeks glowed when Sherlock promised her that she would hear from him. She held on to his hand for much longer than necessary when he stretched it out to say good bye. John marvelled at the absurdity of the situation, wondering why exactly Mrs Chesterton wanted her husband back so badly when she was very clearly open for other options. For a moment he considered the possibility that she had killed her husband just to get Sherlock on the case. 

He dismissed the thought when she came to say good bye to him. “Thank you, Dr Watson. I really appreciate it.”

“We do what we can,” he said with a forced smile and then followed Sherlock down the stairs and onto the street. 

Outside, Sherlock walked ahead briskly, and, fishing his phone from his pocked, he started texting, stopping a cab in mid step and continuing the texting during their ride. John was close to breaking into maniac giggles, but he bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock.

Only when they had returned home and walked into the living room Sherlock set down his phone, took off his coat and turned to look at John. For a few long seconds they just stared at each other. Then they burst out laughing. John stumbled forward and grabbed Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into a messy kiss which was interrupted repeatedly by fresh peals of laughter. Sherlock eventually moved away from John’s lips to kiss along his jaw and down the side of his neck, causing goose-flesh to spread across John’s arms and back. 

“She wanted you so badly,” he gasped when Sherlock bit him gently. “Oh fuck.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock grinned and licked along John’s neckline. “Bedroom. Now.”

“I thought you were on a case?” John asked, his grin teasing. 

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pressed it between his legs. John moaned. “See how much my body is obviously not aware that I’m working?”

John laughed and pulled Sherlock down for another kiss, but he was pushed away. “I said bedroom.”

So John moved and Sherlock followed. When he stopped on top of the stairs, Sherlock stopped one step below him and John attacked his mouth. He knew Sherlock wanted him on the bed, naked, but he couldn’t refuse a kiss on the stairs. 

When they broke away, both of them breathing heavily, John had lost not only his jacket, but also his jumper, and his shirt had lost a few buttons. Sherlock’s shirt had joined John’s jumper and coat on the stairs below and his trousers were undone, only kept up by the curve of his arse. 

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“You were flirting with her!” He sounded accusing, almost angry, and John felt guilty for a second before he remembered that Sherlock had been worse than him. Much worse.

“She undressed you with her eyes and you encouraged her!” John shot back, tucking at Sherlock’s hair until he cocked his head to one side, attaching his mouth to Sherlock’s pulse point, sucking hard.

“Ahh, John. John.” Sherlock was struggling with his words. Good. John grinned and playfully bit him. “Now she’ll know you’re not available.”

“I can always wear my scarf,” Sherlock returned with a grin, making John growl and tackle him, almost throwing both of them down the stairs. 

“Bed,” Sherlock grunted as he regained balance, and, ignoring John’s protest, he simply picked him up and carried him into the bedroom.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sexy times ...

John watched a bee land on Sherlock’s stomach. 

After tumbling on the bed and fighting for control for a few minutes, they had both lost it rather embarrassingly quickly, leaving them exhausted and sated. John had made tea, and by the time he brought up two mugs, Sherlock had fallen asleep. He had watched him for a moment, feeling incredibly privileged to have someone like Sherlock in his life, and then he opened the window, returned to the bed and wrapped himself around Sherlock’s body, letting the tea go cold. Sherlock instinctively moved closer and John had fallen asleep for a while as well.

How long they had slept, John didn’t know. When he had woken up, he had enjoyed the sensation of the warmth of Sherlock’s body next to him and the cold seeping in through the open window and he had yawned and Sherlock had pulled him half on top of him, leaving John with his cheek pressed against Sherlock’s chest.

When the bee appeared, his first instinct was to try and brush it off, but then he remembered Sherlock’s affinity to the insects and so he didn’t move. 

He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat against the side of his head, his breathing in synch with Sherlock’s after minutes of lying otherwise immobile on the bed. 

The bee slowly moved over the smooth skin and the tiniest jerk told John had Sherlock felt it. 

“Want me to take it away?” he asked quietly, trying not to let his breath disturb the small creature.

“No, it’s fine.” John could hear a smile in Sherlock’s voice. So he knew that it was a bee. John had no idea how, but he guessed that he had heard it fly into the room. 

The bee stopped on its way towards John and crawled back down. He hoped that it wouldn’t feel adventurous and go anywhere near Sherlock’s crotch. A sting would have dire consequences for their love life. He chuckled when the small insect stopped at Sherlock’s navel, apparently contemplating dipping down to see what the view was down there. Sherlock shifted minutely. 

“What if it wasn’t a bee? What if it was a particularly ugly fly?” John wanted to know why Sherlock just let the bee stay and tickle him. 

“It’s not, is it?”

John chuckled again and brought one hand up to brush his fingertips over Sherlock’s nipple, close to his face and practically begging to be teased. The sharp inhale of breath told John that he hadn’t been wrong about Sherlock’s expectations. He slowly let his fingertips wander down imaginary paths, never quite pressing down, leaving traces of burning energy behind. 

For a few moments, Sherlock stopped breathing altogether. John watched as his entire chest broke out in goose flesh and he returned to his nipple. This time Sherlock moaned, sucking air into his lungs as John smiled against his skin. The bee finally decided that Sherlock’s navel was interesting enough to move and crawled down where it started to clean itself. 

John lifted his fingers, letting Sherlock feel only the bee apart from his face. Sherlock’s chest below his head rose and fell in quick succession and John felt the anticipation which didn’t allow Sherlock to relax. He expected John’s fingers to eventually start teasing him again. He yearned for it. 

The bee crawled out of the little dip in Sherlock’s stomach and moved to the side. John felt and saw muscles move involuntarily under creamy white skin. “John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded strained. “Take it away, please.”

“Why?” John slowly moved his hand close to where the bee was sitting, hoping not to scare it.

“Because I can swat at your hand without killing you,” came the impatient answer.

“Does it tickle?”

“John!” He sounded almost in pain. 

Very carefully, John placed his finger right in front of where the bee had stopped, waiting for it to move. For a few seconds, it was completely quiet in the room, but then the tiny creature moved and climbed on John’s finger, where it spread its wings and took off, flying out of the window again. 

Sherlock exhaled loudly. “Thank you.”

John smiled and playfully flicked his finger over the previously teased nipple. Sherlock’s whole body jerked. 

“Or maybe not,” Sherlock commented drily.

“You’re enjoying this,” John argued, lifting his head from Sherlock’s chest, placing a kiss to the heated skin. “Close your eyes.”

Sherlock actually scowled at him and John laughed. “Close your eyes!” he repeated, moving to lie next to him. “Do it.”

Eventually Sherlock closed his eyes, but only after making sure that John knew that he only did it to please him.

John smiled and kissed his shoulder, adding a bit of tongue just to surprise Sherlock. Then he lifted his hand and very carefully ran his index finger along the eyelashes of Sherlock’s left eye. The next touch gently brushed along his right brow, not stopping at the end, but drawing on, moving down and back inwards over a cheekbone; then further down along his nose, playfully tapping on the tip of it and then dipping down, settling on his filtrum just to trace the shape of his lips. 

Sherlock involuntarily opened his mouth, sucking in a breath and exhaling shakily. John felt the overwhelming urge to let his finger slip into that mouth and have him suck and lick him until they both felt the urge to exchange John’s finger with something else. He grinned and pulled his hand away, watching amused as Sherlock’s mouth shut and formed a pout. John used his fingernail to intensify the teasing, seeing Sherlock shudder at the unexpected return of John’s attention to his lips. 

Then he moved down and circled Sherlock’s chin, moving up along his jaw line until he reached his ear. 

“John!” Sherlock moved his head, apparently undecided whether he wanted to flee or welcome the feathery touch. 

“Want me to stop?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned, his tongue darting out to chase away the burning sensation John’s fingers had left there. “No!”

“One or the other,” John smiled and ran one finger lightly down to the hollow of his throat. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Does it hurt?” John wanted to know what Sherlock was feeling. 

“I don’t know,” he said again, breathless now. His body moved restlessly, needing something more than what John gave him. 

“It makes you hard,” John murmured, using four fingers now to run down Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh, please! John!”

“What do you want?”

“More!” Sherlock gasped, arching into John’s touch. 

John dipped his index finger into Sherlock’s navel, using his pinkie to carefully brush the head of Sherlock’s cock, which rested against his lower stomach.

“John!” He sounded strangled. “Please!”

John was very tempted to point out that what Sherlock was doing at this point was definitely qualifying as begging, but he didn’t want to shake him out of the state of arousal he was in in that moment.

He let his fingers wander down, ignoring the erection and moving to the side until he traced the line where Sherlock’s hip met his leg. His legs parted unbidden. 

“What do you want me to do?” John looked at Sherlock’s flushed face. 

Sherlock shuddered and John felt himself very close to giving in and wrapping his hand around him. He knew the mix of frustration and surprise had Sherlock close already, and it wouldn’t take long to make him come; but John wanted to prolong the sweet torture. He wanted Sherlock to take what he needed from him.

“It’s not the right time,” Sherlock said, frowning lightly. Now it was John’s turn to be surprised. 

“I’m sorry?”

“The bee. It’s too cold. Where did he come from?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If Sherlock cheated himself out of sex, he’d make sure he wouldn’t manage to think about anything else next time. “It came in and went out through the window. Maybe someone is keeping bees close by and this one escaped?”

“Can we go and find the bees?”

John grinned and kissed him gently. “You do know that you drive me crazy, right?”

“What? Why?” Sherlock sounded actually confused.

Instead of answering, John sat up, drawing his hand from Sherlock’s chin to his navel. Then he moved to lie next to Sherlock again, but upside down, pushing Sherlock’s legs further apart. 

A small content sound escaped Sherlock and John had to smile. “One day I’ll get you to actually ask.”

“I don’t have to ask, not with you.”

He lowered his head, smiling when Sherlock’s cock twitched. “I guess you are asking,” he chuckled, flicking his tongue over his head. 

“John!”

“Well, nonverbal communication has always been your stronger suit.” He slowly let him slip into his mouth, closing his eyes to fight down the feeling of awe which still took hold of him every now and then. 

“John!”

He felt Sherlock’s fingers settling very lightly against his head, not quite touching, but ready to grab if he did anything rogue; so he swallowed around Sherlock. As expected, Sherlock’s fingers were suddenly in his hair, one hand moving around, stroking the nape of his neck. He shuddered and pulled away a bit just to move back down. Sherlock remained still, not yet charged enough to arch up. He let him slip out again, breathing against him for a moment, giving Sherlock the chance to say what he had to say without feeling that he was being manipulated. 

“Don’t stop. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” John looked up, leaning against Sherlock’s side, pressing a quick kiss to his skin. 

But Sherlock just bit his lip and dropped his head back so that John couldn’t see his face. So much for saying what he wanted. 

“What do you want?”

Sherlock signed, the hand in his hair tightening. “More.”

“How much more?”

“Enough.”

“Sherlock!”

“I don’t want to climax.”

John bit his lip, wondering why Sherlock didn’t want to come.

“But I’ll get you there eventually?”

With a frustrated sound, Sherlock pulled back his hands and propped himself up on his elbows, finally looking at John again. “That moment, just before … it’s very …,” he blushed a bit and John hoped he looked encouraging, “… powerful,” Sherlock added eventually. “I’m still here. I’m still with you.”

For a few moments John didn’t understand what Sherlock was trying to say, but when Sherlock frowned, confused once more by his inability to express what he felt to John, he understood what he meant and he felt it again, that punch to his stomach that left him breathless. He had no idea how to handle those raw feelings Sherlock occasionally threw at him. 

“It feels as if I lose you when I climax,” Sherlock added, obviously not convinced yet that John understood him. “Just for a moment.”

And John crawled up his body, and wrapped his arms around him, kissing him until he trusted his voice again. “This is the most heartbreaking thing anyone has ever said to me,” he confessed, kissing him again for good measure, “and the most beautiful things as well.” John knew Sherlock was usually upset when he talked about heartbreak, but then again he didn’t have any other word for it. 

It took him a while until he felt ready to let go of Sherlock again, and even then, he didn’t really move away, but used his hand to get Sherlock to the edge, and then he spent a great amount of time keeping him there until Sherlock was begging him to make him come.

“Was that alright?” John asked when Sherlock opened his eyes again, sweat causing his hair to stick to his forehead. 

He nodded, chewing in his lower lip. “Do you think that bee will be alright?”

John laughed and kissed him. “Way to change the topic, love.” 

Only Sherlock’s small smile made him realise what he had called him again. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” John smiled and kissed him again. 

“I might take you up on that offer.”

“Good.”

“John?”

“Yes?” 

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, which only made John chuckle. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Oh, you can’t deduce it?” John grinned, but he also wondered if he had just opened Pandora’s Box. 

Sherlock sat up, looking down on him. Then he ran his finger along John’s wrist and the cuff. John wasn’t sure whether that was already part of the deduction, but he felt himself blush. Sherlock smirked at him, and John realised that he had given himself away.

“I don’t want to know,” John murmured, his voice a lot rougher than just moments before. 

“I think you already do.”

John shrugged, feeling a bit helpless, but also exceedingly excited about Sherlock’s interest in his wishes; even if he wasn’t even aware of them. 

Sherlock looked at him for a long time, his eyes caressing is body, making John shiver. He felt lightheaded and the need to be touched by Sherlock grew stronger with each second. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Sherlock reached out and ran his finger along John’s length. He arched up with a grunt, surprised by how intense the feeling was. 

Then Sherlock leaned down, distorting his body in a way that looked almost ridiculous and sucked him slowly into his mouth. John cried out, his hand grabbing Sherlock’s hair, neither pulling nor pushing, but needing to feel somehow in control. 

Too soon Sherlock pulled away again, licking his lips. Then he rolled off the bed and padded over to where his bag lay, still half unpacked. He produced the lube and dug around for the condoms, smiling when he threw the tube at John. 

John watched him stride back to the bed, a predatory expression on his face and John felt his breath hitch. He knew that he should be worried about being sore, but somehow his brain didn’t let him go there. 

“No, John,” Sherlock climbed on the bed and handed him the condoms. “You’re going to make love to me.”

It took him a while to remember how to breathe. “Right.”

“Right,” Sherlock grinned.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer died, which means that I can only use my work computer for writing and posting, which makes this all a little complicated. I have no idea when I will have a chance to write more and post (there are still two more chapters written already), so I might not always post on time. Sorry about that, I'm severely unlucky with computers these past few weeks.

John wasn’t sure how exactly they ended up on the floor next to the bed, but they must have fallen off it as one point. He knew he’d start hurting eventually, but for now he could only concentrate on Sherlock’s warm and pliant body in his arms. Making love to Sherlock had felt incredible; not only because the act itself was more intimate than anything he had ever experienced, but it was on his bed, in his room. At home. He felt utterly blissed out. 

“John.” Sherlock sounded wrecked and John chuckled as he pushed Sherlock’s hair out of his face.

“Yes?”

“You’re rather good at this.” Sherlock smiled and pushed his face between John’s arm and his torso, hiding from him. 

“And you are adorable,” John chuckled and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock. “And you opened that third button. That was definitely not fair play.”

“I didn’t know that my buttons featured in our rules,” Sherlock mumbled against his ribs. 

“If you ever decided to seduce me, by God I wouldn’t stand a chance.” John knew that Sherlock knew that, but not talking about it wouldn’t help either. 

Sherlock grinned, he could feel it.

“What?”

He finally lifted his head, his lips twitching. “I like that you are aware, but not scared.” 

“You like that, huh?” John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back until he could firmly grab his buttocks. He squeezed, causing Sherlock to arch his back and at the same time press down his hips. He was already getting hard again.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You can’t be serious!” John pushed until Sherlock was on his back and he was on top. 

“It’s your fault,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t even pretend to be offended. “The thought of me seducing you like I might have Mrs Chesterton … oh John, you would have been on your knees long before I’d get to undo any of my buttons.” 

“A bit overconfident, aren’t we?” John grinned and rolled his hips, making Sherlock grunt. 

“The way you just made love to me,” Sherlock started, but didn’t finish his thought. So John kissed him and then kissed his way down Sherlock’s body until he could suck him into his mouth. Sherlock shuddered, his hands balling into fists. 

“John, wait!” Sherlock’s voice was already strained, “come back here.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, yes. But you aren’t.”

John froze as he replayed the events of the day in his head. Yes, he had been confused and slightly annoyed by Sherlock’s act, but apart from that he felt happy. Even the shadow of Moriarty which refused to disappear hadn’t really affected him in the long run. No, he felt perfectly happy. What in the world was Sherlock on about? He kissed Sherlock’s erection, open mouthed and with quite a bit of tongue, but then he crawled back up until he was face to face with Sherlock. 

“I think we should get dressed,” Sherlock said, regret audible in his voice. 

“What’s wrong?” John searched his eyes for some clue, but there was nothing that told him anything about what Sherlock was thinking. 

But Sherlock shook his head and sat up, fishing for his underwear. John wanted to ask if they should shower first, considering that they were both sticky and sweaty, but Sherlock seemed to find it necessary to cover himself. He was still hard, which made John hope that whatever was to happen wouldn’t be too bad, but he felt anxious now. With a sigh, he got up and pulled out a fresh t-shirt from his wardrobe. Before he put on his shorts, he wiped himself with a tissue, knowing that it wasn’t helping much. 

“Dressed enough?” he asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

“Don’t be angry,” Sherlock said quietly, and the anxious feeling in John’s stomach grew. There was only one way to fix this. He crossed the room and pulled Sherlock into a hug. To his infinite relief, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him tightly and hummed contentedly. 

“What is it?” John placed one hand flat against the small of his back, the other rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said, his voice still very quiet and very serious. 

“I …”

“Hush,” Sherlock interrupted him and John had to smile, because Sherlock never used that word, “let me finish.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock squeezed a bit harder for a second. 

“I know you took a while to get used to the idea of loving me. A man, I mean. And me, the freak.” John wanted to pull away, but Sherlock had a firm grip on him and he couldn’t really do anything but to stay still and listen. “And I know that you love me. Even aside from the physical proof; and apart from those things which I never quite managed to tell apart from … actual affection. I know you do. No, that’s wrong,” he sighed as if he was annoyed with himself for not finding the right words again. “I can feel that you do.” 

He was quiet for a while, but John knew he wasn’t done. “But I don’t know if you can feel it, too? That I … what you … mean to me, I mean.” He swallowed audibly. “Do you?” 

John closed his eyes and simply held on for a moment, swallowing down the first thoughts that came to his mind. He decided not to answer, feeling Sherlock’s heat against his body, smelling him, tasting him still. 

“Because you don’t trust it. I know you trust me, against your better judgement, but you don’t seem to trust your own … whatever it is that tells you.”

“Tells me what?” John’s voice was a bit rough and he cleared his throat. He started to understand where Sherlock was going with this, and he wasn’t sure that he was ready to face it.

“You’re a very loyal man, John. You would give everything you have to make sure that the people you love are happy. And you love so many people and for some extraordinary reason you also love me. But you don’t trust others to love you. What happened, John? Who hurt you so much that you are so afraid to be left behind?”

‘Trust issues.’ John felt light-headed. “Mycroft must have shown you my file,” John said quietly. Bile rose in his throat and his hands started shaking lightly. John knew that Sherlock had a point. He hadn’t trusted him when he had gone to talk to Carl; something which seemed absurd now, but he still remembered the deep sense of insecurity he had felt. It had led to disaster. And all of this jealousy, no, not jealousy – this need to spend as much time with him as possible now that he was sure of his feelings, as if he were afraid to miss a single second and regret it later, because there was a real possibility that things might be over every minute of the day. 

He recalled the moment when Sherlock closed his eyes as Moriarty pointed the gun at John. That moment when Sherlock decided that he wouldn’t watch John die. Somehow, he had overcome that fear and he had stayed calm in the one moment when it mattered. That second time when Moriarty pointed a gun at John, he had watched. John wasn’t sure he could let himself imagine their roles being reversed. He felt ready to throw up. 

“John!” Sherlock’s hands loosened a bit, giving him room to breathe. “I did not want to read it, so I didn’t. Well, I read a few things, but not anything of consequence. Nothing about that.”

John pulled back and looked up, watching Sherlock look back at him with a calm expression. “I want you to tell me, and you know that I know a few things, but I want you to tell me what you think is important.”

“I never even told my therapist.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock smiled. “But you made love to me in such a … I mean, you …” Sherlock blushed and looked away bashfully. “I think you forgot for a moment.”

John felt deeply torn. He wasn’t sure he would even find the words to speak about things he had buried deep inside, locked away in a black box in the hopes of never opening it again.   
“Tell me what you know,” he asked Sherlock, gently touching his face. “It’ll be easier.”

“I think we need tea for this,” Sherlock said, sounding more in control than John could understand in such a situation. For all his complete lack of empathy where others were concerned, he seemed to have some profound understanding of what John was going through. Maybe that was why he had never even mentioned his visit to Carl in private.

While John made tea, Sherlock dimmed the light in the living room. He grabbed the union jack cushion and placed it carefully on one end of the couch, as if to mark John’s own place on it. 

When John put the tea cups on the coffee table, Sherlock sat down, his hands in his lap. He looked relaxed but very serious and John wondered if Sherlock had ever looked his age like that. In the dim light he could see the small wrinkles and lines on his face. He knew he had gained quite a few around his mouth and eyes since they had met, and it made him giddy with happiness. Sherlock’s eyes were focused, but not staring. He didn’t search, he just observed. His lips were soft and slightly parted, looking just a tiny bit too inviting. Just as John let himself enjoy that particular thought, he could see Sherlock’s lips stretching into a smile. 

“Right,” John sobered up a bit, wondering how to start. 

“You lost someone. Not just anyone. You lost someone you had sworn to protect; not necessarily to an authority, but to yourself. You couldn’t keep a promise you had made. You are afraid it will happen again.” Sherlock’s voice was calm and steady, not a deduction, but taking stock of his knowledge. John exhaled noisily. “It didn’t just happen once. Once would be dramatic, but twice would be traumatic. The first time you felt guilty, but you talked yourself out of it, knowing that it wasn’t really your fault. The second time, though, it scarred you and you have not recovered. You forgot for a while; made yourself forget. You never stopped having those particular nightmares. Not until recently. Not until your subconscious was confronted with the real possibility of yet another loss.”

John nodded, unable to find the strength to speak. 

“It wasn’t just Afghanistan, was it? There was a reason why you enlisted. You wanted to save people; you were desperate to save people. You would even kill to save those who you swore to protect.”

John tried to blink the tears away, but he didn’t quite manage. 

“God, what did your sister do to you!” It wasn’t a question. For a moment everything was quiet. John barely dared to breathe, afraid he would start sobbing. The tears couldn’t be stopped now, but he didn’t wipe them away. Sherlock watched him, until suddenly his eyes widened in shock. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He sounded incredibly sad.

“Why?” John sniffed, irritated by Sherlock’s reaction. He wasn’t apologising for making him cry, but what was it that he was sorry for?

“I’m stupid. Oh, John, I’m so sorry. I’m clean, I promise. I haven’t taken anything. I really haven’t. I wouldn’t.”

For a second John felt ready to throw up again, but then, suddenly, he could breathe freely, and he felt a weight lifted off his shoulders that he hadn’t known he was carrying. 

“I won’t do what she did to you. I won’t fail you.” Sherlock was dead serious, John could see that. “I’m so sorry I kept you guessing. I know Mycroft wasn’t very supportive in that, either. He is still afraid, he’ll always be afraid.”

“I never knew you knew how much he cared.”

“I know. I just don’t want him to know that I know.”

“You never thought you mattered.”

“I never did.”

John stared at him. “You always mattered, Sherlock! I told you. The people you saved and those you helped. You matter to them.”

“They’re not important,” Sherlock sounded a tiny bit petulant. Good, so his message was getting across.

“But Mycroft surely is.”

Sherlock huffed and wrinkled his nose.

“Mrs Hudson?”

“Alright, alright, yes, some people matter.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s you that matters to them, don’t you see?” 

“Why are we talking about me now?” 

John laughed, tears splashing onto his hands, but he grew serious again when he thought about what Sherlock had just told him. “I was supposed to help her. I should have been able to.”

“She’s not your responsibility.”

“She’s my sister.”

“One who’s hurting you by making sure you can’t keep your promise?”

“Look who’s talking,” John said bitterly, watching as Sherlock’s features grew dark. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.” He knew it was too late to apologise, but he started to understand why Sherlock behaved towards his brother like he did; and why, despite it all, he always understood Mycroft a lot better than Sherlock wanted him to. 

“You’re right, John. And it won’t change; and neither will she. So don’t think that it’s your fault, because it isn’t.” Sherlock reached for his tea and cradled the cup in his hands. “I never said I was a nice person.”

“I know you aren’t,” John allowed himself a sad smile. “And yet I care more about you than I have ever cared for anyone else.”

“What happened in Afghanistan?” Sherlock urged him on, the tips of his ears burning pink. “They wouldn’t have let you join the service had you already shown signs of emotional instability.”

John wanted to protest, but he thought back at the anger and desperation he had felt when Sherlock had used him in Carl’s case, and the anger he had buried deep inside of him, and he knew he was right. “I survived.” Was it really that simple?

“I’m so glad you did,” Sherlock almost whispered, the cup in his hands shaking lightly. 

“I shouldn’t have. I should have been out there. I should have …” He couldn’t keep talking. The memories were back; the nightmare that had shown Sherlock the dark side of him after his return from Canada. 

“Tell me.”

John stared at his hands, and beyond them. “I saw them die. I couldn’t even save the soldier I was operating on. They all just dropped around me. And then I was hit and I couldn’t do anything to help them …” There were no more tears; just an empty hole in his heart that seemed to pull him back into the nightmare of that day. “And three of my men died out there because I switched shifts. I was supposed to be the one lying in the gutter. Not Boone, who had become a dad just a week before and …”

“Why did you switch shifts?” Sherlock’s voice helped him to snap back, though the pain still lingered. 

“Crowe had a ruptured stomach ulcer. He needed surgery that morning. I wanted to do it as early as possible so I could be sure to still have clean water and a stable current. The power station usually started mucking about after ten. I needed to do it immediately, and after I finished they brought in Boone with his chest ripped open as if some animal had attacked him. Kern had stepped on a landmine. Not even his dog tags made it. Boone had stood a few feet away and got hit right in the chest. He was bleeding internally, but I could have saved him, somehow. He was still conscious, saying that Kern had always wanted to throw himself at him,” he laughed, a bitter sound that scared him. “He had been in for thirty seconds, and then all hell broke loose. I could see how he bled and I knew it was too late even before I went down.” John tried to breathe; tried to tell himself that it was all in the past and that there was nothing he could do about it. He felt Sherlock’s arms around him, but it took him a while to register it. 

“You did save Crowe,” Sherlock stated calmly. “He would have died out there if you hadn’t helped him. And even if you tell yourself that you could have saved Boone, he could have been injured much more seriously than you could have known in those few seconds. He was a dead man when they brought him in. Not even the best doctor in the world could have saved him, not with a bullet in his shoulder.”

“I know,” John closed his eyes and pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest. “I told myself that a million times. It doesn’t help.”

“You didn’t fail them,” Sherlock said, his hand settling against the nape of John’s neck. “You were a good soldier, I know that much. You are an amazing doctor, I know that, too. If any one of us is a hero, then it’s you, John. You didn’t drop the scalpel when you knew they’d attack. You were prepared to save that man even during fire.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion. “You would have sacrificed your own life so that someone else could have theirs back. You came after me, because you knew I would do something stupid. You chose to stay with me, even though you could have had a normal life, with Sarah, and two point five children and you would have let yourself forget what you went through. But you stayed, even though I remind you every day of all the things that hurt you and all the things you’ll never have.”

For a minute, John was too exhausted to answer. His brain refused to acknowledge those last few sentences as relevant. “I have a partner,” he said, quietly, but his voice was much stronger than he had feared. “I have a partner who always has my back. I also have a skull on the mantel piece and body parts in the fridge. I don’t need kids. I don’t need a wife. I have you. Crazy fucking bastard.” Sherlock smiled and kissed the top of his head. 

“Better?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I’ve never talked about it.”

“Want me to call your sister and give her a piece of my mind?”

“Oh if you could do that and put some sense into her…” John grinned and looked up. “Although I think she’d be really confused by the sudden increase of brain cells.” 

Sherlock chuckled and pulled John into a tight hug. “You never failed me, John. Not a single time. I hope you know that.”

“We both know that’s not true, but thank you.” John closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to calm his heart down.

“Have you talked to the wife?”

“Huh?” 

“The mother of the baby. Does she know how you feel about this?”

John felt something in his gut dissolve, leaving a different kind of burning sensation. Of course he had wanted to, but then it had been too late and he had been in hospital for endless weeks and then he just wanted to forget. 

“It might help,” Sherlock suggested, and John wanted to kiss him senseless for it. 

“Thank you for making me talk about it.”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for being attracted to me, even with all those scars.” Sherlock’s expression changed into something which made John blush. 

“I think we’d be able to go through quite a few more thank-yous here, but considering that you have doubts concerning your attractiveness, I think it’s time to take this back upstairs, so I can try to erase all those doubts.”

John swallowed. “I must look like shit,” he murmured, rubbing his face.

Sherlock just shook his head and then pushed him off to be able to get up. Before he turned away, John was sure he could see Sherlock’s chin tremble and he wondered how much the things he had told him really affected Sherlock. Inhaling deeply, he followed him upstairs.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The computer problem sadly still exists, so I can't write a lot right now, plus Easter, plus Shakespeare's birthday...all things to keep me away from writing; that, and that my muse is insisting that the few minutes I have to write go into my Formula 1 AU "Red Lights Out". Having said that, I am stil writing on this and the plot is all planned out, so I will most definitely finish it; though posting might sadly be more sporadic than I had hoped. Once I'll have my work and my home computer fixed, things will relax a bit. Sorry about that.
> 
> But I wanted to say a big fat thank you to those who comment on my fic! It's immensely appreciated.
> 
> Edit: I realise I never really commented officially on whay there is an abrupt open end to this and I know that a lot of readers don't read WIPs exactly for that reason. SO sorry about that. The above mentioned fic kinda took over my little free time and I have been writing and posting for well over a year now. I still have a few chapters to write before I can wrap this up properly, but then I will return to The Eye of the Beholder Series. Thank you for being patient xx

He woke up when he felt the bed dip next to him. Sherlock was fully dressed and cradled a cup of tea in his hands, careful not to spill anything on the bed. He smiled when John stretched. 

“Will I ever wake up before you again?” John smiled at the memory of Sherlock sprawled out on the bed in Winchester, his body relaxed and oh so pretty. He would transfer the photos onto his computer today and they would end up back in bed sooner than Sherlock would ever expect.

“Morning. We’re going to Kent.”

John blinked. So much for that plan. “Hmm?”

“Drink your tea, we’re going to Kent.”

“No.” John pulled the covers up to his nose and squinted at him. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” 

Sherlock smiled and held out the cup. “Well, I’m going.”

“And you’re asking me to come with you?”

“Are you coming?”

“Nicely?” John failed to hide the smile under the covers. 

“Please come to Kent with me?”

“Do I have time for a shower?” They hadn’t really cleaned up last night, and despite feeling rather comfortable and happy considering the turn of events, he knew he desperately needed to wash. 

“Tea first.” Sherlock waited until John sat up and then handed him the cup. 

“Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded his answer and then picked up a folder from his night stand. “Dreamland Margate. Used to be an amusement park, constructed in the late nineteenth century, opened in 1920 and did quite well until it was bought off. The new owners tried to restore the vintage rides and the scenic railway slash rollercoaster burned down before it could re-open. It’s been closed since, but is supposed to open its doors within this year.”

“Okay,” John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to remember how any of this was at all relevant. 

“Lestrade’s file. I figured I’d have a look, because I don’t think Elsie’s appearance is as accidental as Mrs Chesterton wants us to believe. And yet I don’t understand why we were supposed to notice her. The two cases are connected; I just don’t see why Mycroft didn’t tell Lestrade, as they clearly have been talking about us. Someone is threatening to destroy an amusement park, but attacks on amusement parks are incredibly rare. Margate has been targeted before, so I would like to investigate. I’ve read everything I could find on the internet, but there are some important details missing. All the according papers and police reports appear to in Margate.”

“You think Elsie is connected to Moriarty?”

“She’s Miranda’s identical twin. They have the same crook in their left eye brow and the same discoloration at the base of their throats. I saw Miranda in the mortuary. I also highly doubt that it was her real name, and I have reasons to doubt that Elsie is using her real name.”

“Shit,” John exhaled shakily. “Why didn’t you tell me before I flirted with her.”

“Tactics,” Sherlock reasoned. “If she thinks you could potentially suspect her and she made you believe her is worth a lot more than targeting her directly. This way she might actually help us.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, drink up.”

“Are we on a schedule to see who wants to murder us this time?” John didn’t want to feel annoyed at what Sherlock had just told him, especially not after last night, but somehow it didn’t sit right with him.

“Nothing will happen to you.”

“Empty words,” John murmured into his cup.

“John!”

“You can’t promise that, so don’t pretend that you can.”

“I told Mycroft. He’s placed her under surveillance.”

John finished his tea and crawled out of bed. The shower made him feel better, but he still felt slightly unsure of how to process the news. 

To his surprise, he found Sherlock sitting on the bed, looking miserable. “You okay?” John asked, wondering whether he should have kept his thoughts to himself.

“You’re right,” Sherlock admitted. “I can’t promise that nothing will happen to you. Statistically, you should be safe for now, but we are not necessarily working within the field of probability.”

John sat down next to him and squeezed his knee. “I’m just as worried about you, you know? I just think that it would be brilliant if we could occasionally solve some crimes that don’t put us in mortal danger.”

Sherlock nodded. “He is dead. I checked again. But bring your gun, and I will … get one as well.”

“I should give you lessons. You’re more of a danger to yourself than anyone else when you have a gun in your hand.” John smiled and leaned in to press a gentle kiss against pouting lips. “I’m joking. Your aim at Moriarty was exceptional.” 

“I’ll be careful. And I won’t let you out of my sight.”

“Good, because I don’t trust Mrs Chesterton either. I think I’m more scared of her kidnapping you than I am of Moriarty’s gang.”

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a smile at John’s half joke and rose. “I’m driving.”

“You’re what`?”

“I got us a car. Much more convenient for … in case … erm,” he waved his hand about and walked out of the room to John’s wide grin. Just in case, he pocketed a few condoms and the lube after he got dressed. He chuckled to himself when he pushed his gun into his waistband, feeling like a proper vigilante. 

When Sherlock had said car, John had imagined all kinds of things, but he had not expected a black Jaguar XF. “Sherlock?” John tentatively touched the bonnet, trying very hard not to think about bending Sherlock over it. “Mycroft is happy you’re taking the case, isn’t he?”

Sherlock just grinned. “He bought it and said he never uses it. So, as long as I handle this Chesterton Case, we can use this car. I’ve already removed all surveillance equipment it carried. Mycroft is so incredibly paranoid.”

*****

It took them an hour to get out of London, and neither was in the mood to stop once they picked up speed, driving east. “So you just want to investigate the amusement park.” John looked out of the window, watching the greyish green landscape slide by. Maybe they could stop by in Canterbury on their way back, he thought, imagining himself dragging Sherlock through the cobblestoned streets framed by crooked half-timbered houses. 

“Yes, archives and such. I haven’t found out how to reach the current owner, and once we have contact, things should be cleared up quickly.”

“Why would anyone burn a historic building?” John skimmed through the files. Sherlock had printed out several pictures of the burning railway and historic photographs of the amusement park. 

“The usual suspects,” Sherlock sighed, but then he shook his head. “Its National Heritage listing was raised just before it was burned. It means that nobody was allowed to dismantle or change it in any way. My money is on the owner who wanted to upgrade the park and who was tired of dealing with an old structure which would be entirely too expensive to restore accordingly. Margate isn’t exactly Brighton or Blackpool.”

John sighed and put away the file. For a moment he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that someone would want to commit a crime that had already been committed half a decade before, but then he got a bit distracted by Sherlock’s driving skills. Long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel and stick like he’d been doing it all his life, though John couldn’t even remember whether Sherlock had ever told him that he could drive in the first place. 

“What?” Sherlock asked after a while, his eyes leaving the road for a moment to look at John. He immediately turned a shade pinker when he saw John’s look and John started to guess that Sherlock’s secret fantasies wouldn’t remain secret for much longer. They had joked about blowjobs in cars, but John hadn’t really thought about it properly. Yet sitting in this car with its beige leather seats and sleek fittings was positively inspirational. 

“Convenience,” was all John said, and then he looked out of the window to distract himself. 

Within another hour they had reached the surprisingly deteriorated compound which held the former amusement park. John got out of the car and smiled at the sunshine, smelling the sea and fresh air. Sherlock immediately walked briskly across the car park to the rusty gate which held a sign, advertising the planned re-opening of the park. Half of the historic railway had been dismantled and John wondered once again why anyone would willingly destroy something like an ancient rollercoaster – or, well, what was left of it. 

“Let’s have a look,” Sherlock called out to him and pushed open the gate. He heard the chain which had previously held the gate closed fall to the ground and he groaned, sensing that their impending arrest would have nothing to do with public indecencies and everything with breaking and entering. 

“Sherlock, you know I already have an ASBO.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother turning around, so John, as always, followed him. The area was very badly secured, but it seemed as if the locals accepted the boundaries. There was no littler anywhere and the rides, despite falling apart in some place, seemed to be in a remarkably good condition. John imagined the park filled with people a century ago and he smiled, mentally putting Sherlock on the back of a carousel’s horse. 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock suddenly stood next to him, much closer than was possibly reasonable considering how much space they had. 

He reached out and pulled him close, kissing him full on the mouth. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and smiled into the kiss. Finally he pulled back, pressing another small kiss on John’s cheek and straightened up again. 

“The absence of anything that could possibly catch fire by accident is highly suspicious.”

“So you think we’re in the right place?”

Sherlock nodded. “I have a few theories, nothing specific yet, but at least something to work with. Come on, let’s go and find the archives of this place.”

It was surprisingly easy to find the town archive and they were let in without question when Sherlock smiled sweetly and told the lady at the front desk that his great grandparents once sent him a postcard from the park and he wanted to find out more.

Two hours later he closed the book he’d been reading with a frustrated bang. John realised that it meant that he hadn’t been able to find anything that connected Moriarty to the park, nor any earlier connections to an arson attack. 

“Want to go get some food and go to the beach?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had suggested skinny dipping in the Serpentine. 

“Oh come on. It’s lovely outside and we could use some air after this.”

“Right.” Sherlock closed his notebook and put the book back into the shelf from which he had pulled it. He smacked his lips with mock enthusiasm and sent a fake smile into John’s general direction. “To the beach.”

“Arse,” John murmured once they had walked past the front desk.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that I let this fic sit here with 'Arse' being the last word spoken for more than three years. I am incredibly amused by this. In any case, I will try to update this on a semi-regular basis - and this time I will actually finish this, because I have so many ideas for this and I am amazed that I was so preoccupied with Red Lights Out that I forgot all about the plot for this until I re-read my initial ideas for this. So yeah, I might not post weekly, but I hope to add to this regularly. Thanks for reading and apologies for letting this sit dormant for so long.

They found a comparatively comfortable fish and chips shop right across from the beach. John made a point of loudly wondering why Sherlock had chosen to sit with his back to the window, but once he had turned around to look at what Sherlock was looking at he understood. 

“The backs of these houses mark the edge of the park, and this one in particular is the closest to the railway,” Sherlock explained, clearly feeling the need to justify himself after John’s disapproval of his seating choice. “There has to be a backdoor. Fire protection protocol and probably bins.”

“Are we going to break in here tonight? I mean, it’s bad enough that we walked into it without permission, but this will be too ...”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said loudly, waving his arm at the man behind the counter. 

He came closer and asked if John’s food was okay. Sherlock had refused to eat anything, but John had ordered him a cup of tea anyway.

“I was wondering,” Sherlock smiled at the man, cradling the cup in his hands, “is it true that behind these houses there is an ancient amusement park?”

“Yepp,” the man said, smiling at them. “A huge thing. Maybe not ancient, but quite old. Used to be the place to go. My granda’ always told me about the rides and how my nan used to drag him there during summer.”

“It’s been closed for a while, no?” Sherlock nodded, a smile still firmly on his lips. 

“Yeah, they had a fire and all, and they’re about to reconstruct a bit, but right now just sits there.”

“You go there, sometimes? I mean, it is right there. The curiosity and all.”

The man squinted at him as if he suddenly suspected that they might be police. John wondered how Sherlock wanted to justify his curiosity – though he was fairly sure that he would be able to somehow pull it off.

“I mean, if we wanted to have a look … you know, just take some pictures and be off, do you think that would be possible?”

“You could ask the owner for permission?”

“Yeah, but that would be boring,” Sherlock’s smile was wide now and he looked as if his idea quite excited him. 

“You wouldn’t do anything funny, would you?”

Sherlock looked troubled for a moment and then sighed. “No, I’m just a bit of a fan and I had this silly idea that your shop might have a back door and you could let us through and let us have a look. Imagine what it must have been like, back in the day.”

“You’re a historian?”

“It’s a hobby,” Sherlock nodded. “I’ve done the lost underground stations in London and the secret tunnels under the White House, and this is a rather lovely place.”

The man stared at him, and so did John. “You what?”

Sherlock ignored him. “Don’t suppose there is a lot of security here, is there?”

“There’s someone patrolling it, but he knows us, and he doesn’t mind. Knows we won’t do anything to the park.”

John looked at Sherlock, but he didn’t say anything. John wasn’t sure whether that made the man a possible suspect or whether Sherlock wanted to remain on the good side of him to be able to take advantage. 

“Say, if he came by tonight, just after midnight? You look like someone who stays up late. Do you think you could us have a look? Just an hour, not more. I’ll pay you any sum of money you want. I just really want the experience.”

John tried his best not to kick Sherlock. 

“Oh, well, it’s winter. Nobody will be out anyway. And yeah, I’ve insomnia, how can you tell?”

“Takes one to know one,” he nodded sympathetically. “How much?”

“I can’t really put a prize on that. No, seriously. If you guys get caught you won’t mention me, that’s all I ask. No names and no money and we have a deal.”

“Thank you!” Sherlock sounded completely and genuinely happy. “That’s really very good of you.” 

He looked at them for a moment and then nodded and went back behind the counter. Sherlock managed to look happy for the fifteen minutes it took John to eat his lunch. Then he walked up to the man and shook his hand. “I can’t promise anything, but I might know something that could help with your insomnia,” he said. “If you won’t take any money, let me at least try to help you out in another way.”

John hadn’t stopped being amazed since Sherlock had started the entire conversation and once they stepped outside, he didn’t quite know whether he wanted to know how Sherlock had managed to pull that stunt off. “Did you just hypnotise him or something?”

Sherlock smiled. “Let’s go to the beach.”

They walked all the way up to the water, the wind now blowing fiercely. John pushed his hands into his coat pockets and closed his eyes. Sun and the sea – he loved that mix. It was one of the few childhood memories he cherished. 

“He doesn’t sleep well. Looks like he hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours in the last the days. I could have sold him a castle in the sky and he would have gone for it.”

“That’s …,” John wasn’t sure whether he found Sherlock’s plan brilliant or offensive, “pretty bold,” he finished, looking at Sherlock. His hair was ruffled by the strong wind and he squinted against the light. “Bold, and pretty smart.” He watched a small dimple appear on Sherlock’s cheek. Did Sherlock always react to his praise like that? He had noticed that it had an effect on him previously, but that little smile told him that maybe Sherlock took his compliments in an entirely different way than he had always thought.

“I want to go in,” he said, looking out on the water.

“You’ve suffered from hypothermia twice within the last three weeks. You are not going in.”

“Come on, get naked. You’re coming with me.”

Sherlock looked so incredulous that John had to sit down, because he laughed so hard. 

“I don’t see how that is funny at all,” Sherlock complained, looking at him like a disapproving parent would look at their child. Something else that was new, John noted in the back of his mind. The list was growing ever longer.

“I’ll go in with my feet,” John then decided and proceeded to take off his shoes. 

“I’m serious!” Sherlock knelt down in front of him and tried to keep him from pulling off his left shoe. 

“Have you never done that? Never walked through the snow barefoot, just to see what it feels like? Never walked through freezing sand into the suddenly much warmer sea?”

Sherlock shook his head, obviously convinced that he could live without having made those two particular experiences. 

“Then it’s something you have to do. Add it to the list of things you know. Theory is no good there.”

“But what if you catch a cold?”

“I’ll be fine, and so will you. Come on!” He pulled off his socks and pushed up the legs of his jeans. Sherlock helped him to stand up, but doubt was written all over his face.

“Come on!” John repeated and jogged the last few yards to the water. The sand was freezing and he cursed at it and the fierce wind which bit into his skin. Then he stepped into the water, which was very calm despite the wind, and which, as expected, felt much warmer than the sand. He gasped and laughed, remembering how he had ran along the shore line barefoot with Harry when they were children, their trousers covered in sand and salt and their cheeks glowing red, their ears hurting from the biting wind and yet they had never felt warmer in their lives. 

He knew that he couldn’t start running now. They didn’t have any change of clothes with them and he would have to use tissues to dry himself off. He laughed again when a wave rushed up and soaked a few inches of his trousers. So much for keeping them dry. 

“John?” Sherlock stepped next to him, trousers rolled up neatly all the way up his calves, so that his coat was in greater danger of getting wet than his trousers. 

“Hey,” John said, smiling up at him. “How is the water?”

Sherlock huffed and made a face. 

They managed another minute before they started shivering. “I am in pain,” Sherlock stated when they waded onto the dry sand again. The wind now bit at their ankles and calves and John toyed with the idea of warming up his feet by pushing them into Sherlock’s lap, or possibly under his shirt. 

“Should we find a hotel or something?” he asked. “To warm up?”

“We have the car,” Sherlock argued.

“But it’s not ours and I’m sure we’ll get in trouble if there is sand all over it.”

“In it,” Sherlock countered before he frowned, obviously realising grudgingly that he agreed with John. “Alright. There’ll be an open hotel somewhere, even if it’s off season – which it decidedly is,” he looked pointedly at their red toes. 

“You’ve just done something you have never done before in your life,” John said, smiling. 

“I much prefer sex,” Sherlock commented drily, making John laugh. 

“You’re so happy, why are you so happy?” Sherlock seemed honestly confused by John’s giddiness. 

“Just this,” he threw his arms out and turned around himself once. “And you’re here, and you came in with me even though you hated it.”

“And that makes you happy?”

“Yes it does,” John pulled Sherlock into a hug, and then he pulled back and opened Sherlock’s coat so he could wrap it around himself, too, while being much closer to Sherlock’s body heat. “It really does.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

They shivered as they walked back across the beach until they reached concrete, where they tried to dry off their sandy feet. Sherlock glared at him, but John just grinned. There was sand in Sherlock’s hair and John wondered if Sherlock could ever be talked into something as pedestrian as simply going to the beach in summer. Maybe he could ask Greg if he knew anyone in the south of France who could dig up an interesting case for Sherlock. 

“Alright. I’ll see if there’s a place that we can afford.” He pulled out his phone and opened his browser. He could see Sherlock look at him pityingly in the corner of his eye and take out his own phone. 

“Two choices out of many more options,” he finally said when John had just started to type 'Hotels Margate' into his search bar. “‘Sands’, right over there, which costs more than you are willing to pay but would definitely fall into the category of convenient, and ‘The Premier Inn’, much cheaper, and, well…” 

“Are we now rating hotels by their beds?” John wasn’t quite sure whether he really had understood Sherlock’s implications. 

“You’re right. The Inn it is. It’s closer to the park and we won’t be sleeping anyway.”

John ignored that particular remark and shrugged. “Fine. Any bed will do,” he said, hoping that Sherlock had indeed meant what he had implied when he spoke of convenience. “I can’t wait to lick the salt off your skin.”

Sherlock, who had taken off in the direction of the indicated hotel, stopped dead in his tracks. John grinned triumphantly and then he had to almost jog to keep up with Sherlock, who walked away as fast as his long legs would carry him without running. The hotel really was just around the corner and once they had checked in, John was happy to find that their room overlooked the sea. It was small, but it had a desk, free Wi-Fi, and, as far as he could tell, a really nice, king sized bed. 

Sherlock immediately undressed and walked past John, who stood by the window and stared at him. He felt reminded of Winchester, only a handful of days ago, when Sherlock had let go of all his inhibitions. John still needed a moment to remember that it was perfectly okay to stare at Sherlock's perfectly okay arse. 

He grinned and turned on the heating, remembering that Sherlock had complained repeatedly about the cold, and followed him into the bathroom. It was tiny, and so was the shower cubicle, and once Sherlock had stepped inside John wondered whether he would be allowed to join him. Sherlock poked his head out. “You have ten seconds to undress before I wash the salt off my body.”

John almost sprained the fingers of his left hand trying to get out of his clothes as quickly as possible. Then he stepped into the shower and realised that maybe Sherlock hadn’t exactly referred to the beds when he had talked about the different standards of the hotels. 

There was very little room and the small boiler above their heads promised only a very limited amount of hot water. The dismay on his face seemed to amuse Sherlock, who simply shrugged his shoulders and reached for the button to get the water running. John stopped his hand and then stood on his toes to lick a line along his throat. Sherlock swallowed under his touch and John repeated the action. He loved the slightly bitter taste of sea-salt and sweat, and he sighed contentedly when Sherlock’s hands settled between his shoulder blades. He smiled up at him and Sherlock smiled back and John felt a surge of happiness rush through him. 

Sherlock was on a case and yet he hadn’t hesitated a minute when John had implied that he wanted him naked. He knew that the speed with which he had undressed and then ordered him to do the same was probably down to him wanting to get things over with as quickly as possible so he could tackle the case again, but now that they were naked, the need to hurry had been replaced with calm acceptance that John wanted to cuddle. 

He pulled him against his body, letting his hands run up and down his back and with a contented sigh he closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s collar bone. “I’m going to turn on the water now,” Sherlock warned, and John nodded, enjoying the few seconds Sherlock let him be that close.

Once the water was running, they separated and managed to wash off the sand and salt without elbowing or kneeing each other too badly. John enjoyed washing Sherlock immensely. It was a different kind of touching, a different way to learn his body, and while it was intimate, it also seemed less dangerous. He knew they were both able to satisfy each other, but now he thought that maybe once the initial excitement passed and they weren’t getting aroused just by the thought of seeing each other naked, they’d have to figure out how to properly please each other. At least he felt that he did; Sherlock already knew how to push his buttons. But Sherlock might get bored at some point and John never wanted that to happen. 

“What are you thinking?” Sherlock pushed his chin up with his index finger, forcing him to look him in the eyes. 

“I’d rather not say,” John said quietly, hoping that Sherlock would let it go while knowing that he never really did. 

Sherlock kissed his lips gently and pulled back. He studied his face and John felt vulnerable; too vulnerable to keep looking at him. “Do you ever doubt?” he asked, rubbing his thumb across Sherlock’s wrist as he still held his chin up. 

“Context?”

John couldn’t help but smile, knowing that Sherlock expected something case related.

“Sex.” He looked up at him again, frowning.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times and then nodded. “I have no idea what I’m doing, to be honest.”

John stared for a moment. “But you’re so …”

“I do hope there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Sherlock answered with a small smile. “I know what I want to do, and I am fairly sure I have found a few things you like, but, essentially, I’m improvising. Thankfully, you’re very obvious about what you like and what you don’t like.”

“You’re amazing.” John fixed his eyes to Sherlock’s chest, fighting the urge to just hug him, feeling that it would be a cowardly move in that moment. “But what if I … I mean, you are so easily aroused when you let yourself be, but it’s all new and exciting now, and that will eventually change, won’t it?”

Sherlock sighed deeply, but he wasn’t exasperated or annoyed. He was happy. “I don’t see that changing in the near future, or in the distant future, either.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” John cleared his throat. “It’s just a bit messy, that’s all. My head it just trying to make sense of it all and that’s a challenge.”

Sherlock grinned and pulled him close. “You’re not alone in that.”

John smiled against his chest. “You do get hard very easily, though,” he remarked, feeling Sherlock’s erection against his hip. 

“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Sherlock chuckled and pushed a hand between their bodies. 

John laughed. “That works.”

Despite the boiler being tiny, it produced enough hot water to last for the time it took Sherlock to get himself and John off. When they tried to climb out, they almost fell out of the cubicle and John smacked Sherlock’s bum when he leaned forward to grab towels from the rack, grinning at the resulting grunt.

The bed was surprisingly comfortable and Sherlock sat down on it cross legged instead of using the desk, eyes on the screen of his phone, while John blow-dried his trousers. Once he was done, he opened the small notebook into which he had copied some of the information and names he had found in the archive, trying to make sense of what he knew. “It seems the information concerning ownership is patchy at best. But from what I read, the park is now owned by James Goddon. Never heard of that name before,” he thought out loud. Sherlock nodded. “I was thinking of giving him a call, but his number doesn’t work and the address he is listed under doesn’t exist.”

John looked up, confused. “Meaning?”

“He doesn’t want to be found.”

“He’s hiding?”

“Or tired of people contacting him about his park.”

“Or afraid of a criminal mastermind,” John added sourly. 

Sherlock looked at him in amazement. “John! You genius. Yes, of course!”

“What?” John felt pleased and irritated at the same time. 

“The cases are connected! Ah, I knew it!” Sherlock quickly scrolled through a screen on his phone. “Mycroft isn’t quite as stupid as he pretends to be.”

That made John sit up straight in wonder. “Did you just praise your brother?” he asked, unsure whether to poke fun or to call Mycroft immediately to tell him of the ground-breaking development. 

Sherlock’s face reflected disgust at his own exclamation for a moment before he looked at John with an eager expression. “A copy of the birth certificate of Mrs Chesterton was in the file Mycroft sent over. Her maiden name is Goddon. She’s probably James’s sister or cousin.” 

“But why would her disappeared husband have anything to do with the park? I mean, it could just be a coincidence.”

“Could,” Sherlock said, sounding entirely convinced that it was no coincidence at all. “Right, so we have James Goddon, the owner of a park which is currently completely empty with no signs of refurbishment, reparation or any other change. Mrs Chesterton is married to a double agent who has disappeared and who has been tied to English, US American and Russian bureaus. Elsie, Miranda’s twin, definitely connected to the Chemistry Club and probably Moriarty, even if only by proxy, lives with Goddon according to Mrs Chesterton, but the address doesn't exist and the only like we have is Elsie's telephone number. Chesterton and Elsie know about us, and Goddon has probably been informed. If Mrs Chesterton has an interest in Dreamland and her husband …” he stopped in mid sentence, eyes wide in wonder. “John, we have to go back in. I think I know why Mycroft wanted me to take this case.”

John stared at Sherlock, but then shrugged and put on his shoes. “Where are we going?”

“We’ll be under surveillance by now. We have to leave the hotel unseen. And then we wait.”

John pulled on his coat. “How are we going to get out of here unseen?”

Sherlock grinned and pulled him over to the window. Then he kissed him hard on the lips, his fingers raking through John’s hair. He pulled him impossibly close and wrapped his arms around him, fumbling for the blinds. Finally he managed to pull them down, but remained where he was, kissing John like his life depended on it.

John knew that Sherlock was acting. He knew that he had a plan and that the kiss was part of it, but then John decided to not be offended by being abused in such a manner and kissed back, eventually leaving Sherlock’s mouth and kissing a trail down to his chest. He opened Sherlock’s buttons again and moved lower until he had to go down on one knee. Sherlock threw his head back and groaned loudly, and John started to doubt whether it was all acting. He pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cock, rubbing and feeling him grow hard under his hand. “Fuck,” Sherlock gasped and sank down to the floor.

They looked at each other, breathing heavily. John understood Sherlock intent, but he marvelled at the fact that Sherlock had allowed him to go that far. 

Then Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head, and John could see how he pulled back, how his brain took off and his body was ignored. He crawled away and picked up a pillow which he threw against the blind, making it seem as if one or another piece of clothing had been thrown away in haste. 

“We leave the light on,” he decided as he fixed his clothing and pulled on his coat. Then he scowled at his erection for a moment, making John laugh and kiss him quickly, before he quietly opened the door. They found a cleaner’s entrance on the side of the building, but Sherlock stopped before opening the door, walking back down the hallway. “There must be a …” then he pulled open a cupboard in the wall which held sheets and pillow cases and when John had reached him, he found him pushing at a second door at the back of the cabinet. With a swift move, he had climbed into it and motioned John to follow him.

With his phone, he shone some light around the room, conscious of keeping it low. John climbed in, baffled by Sherlock’s chance discovery, and closed the doors behind him, looking around the storage room. It hadn’t been actively used in a while and Sherlock found that a door at the back of the room could be easily manoeuvred open. The smirk on his face was the last thing John saw before Sherlock stepped outside and into the afternoon sunshine.


	12. Chapter Twelve

“Sherlock. This is absurd, isn’t it?”

“If we’re watched by the Russians, I really don’t want them to know that we know that they are involved.”

“Sherlock. It’s not the Cold War anymore,” John tried carefully, wondering whether Sherlock’s precautions were really necessary. 

“No. Not the Cold War. This is far less known to the public.”

“Sherlock,” John stopped him in his tracks, realising that he was resorting to something hat Sherlock usually did. And extensive use of his name in order to make him realise that he really meant what he was saying. “Do you really want to pursue a case that involves Russian spies?”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock shook his head, looking quite serious. Much too serious for John’s liking. “But if Mycroft insisted on me taking this case and he, or some other body of the government, placed Natalia in Winchester, this is something that I can’t say no to.”

John rubbed his face, feeling his stomach not quite agreeing with the prospect. “Can we please go home and let someone else take care of this?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long time before he stepped close and gently kissed him. “I can’t. If you need to go, I understand. But I can’t say no to this.”

John shook his head. “I am not letting you do this alone.”

“It might be bigger than Moriarty.”

“But …” John exhaled slowly and looked up at Sherlock’s face. “They might not be psychopaths.”

Sherlock’s worried expression changed into a bright smile and John shook his head, smiling along. “I will regret this, won’t I?”

“I hope you won’t. I promise to be careful.”

“Sherlock? Can I ask one thing?”

“What is it?”

“If I tell you to drop everything and run for it, promise me that you will.”

“Why?”

John shook his head. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t just agree.

“Because you are an autodidactic detective and I am a trained soldier. If we’re going to war, I will be your superior in matters of strategy and combat.”

Sherlock blinked a few times before he swallowed hard and John stepped forward and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Stop thinking about sex. This is serious.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said after a moment of deliberation. 

“Good. So what’s the plan?”

“We go and get access through the backdoor of the chippy.”

“It’s not night yet.”

“Really, John? Did you really think it necessary to point this specific fact out to me?” 

John shrugged. “You offered me a very sketchy plan, so excuse me for pointing out a major flaw.”

“We are not arguing about this.”

“Are we not?”

“No.”

John shook his head with a grin. “I have an idea. Come on.”

Sherlock stood still for a moment before he sighed and followed him back inside. “We might need this exit later on. If we show up outside while they watch us they will know we have an alternative,” John argued and carefully pushed at the closet door. Thankfully, nobody was around when they climbed back into the corridor of the hotel. John still felt that the mere fact that Sherlock had even found this door bordered on utterly impossible. 

A moment after Sherlock had closed the cupboard door behind him, a maid came rushing towards them, frowning when they did not move. “Excuse me, I need to get to the sheets. You are standing right in front of them,” she explained and Sherlock pushed at John. Slightly amused and simultaneously terrified, John took off and rushed upstairs, opening the blinds and switching off the light. Then he returned downstairs and found Sherlock still standing where he had left him. With a smile, John took hold of Sherlock’s hand and pulled him outside. 

Once they walked down the sidewalk, John tugged Sherlock close; close enough so he could kiss his cheek. Sherlock almost stumbled over his own two feet in reaction. 

“Is that your plan?”

“Yes. After Winchester, we’re now adding a little holiday by the seaside.”

“By holiday you mean sex holiday.”

John burst out laughing. “Something like that, yes.”

“This is our cover?” Sherlock asked incredulously and John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s back, positively pressing himself against Sherlock’s left side. 

“Yes. And no.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s also what it is. Not a holiday, though.”

“Just sex.” Sherlock chuckled. “I see.”

They continued walking like this, John hugging Sherlock close, and finally Sherlock gave in and draped his arm around John’s shoulders. Every now and then, they stopped and looked at a shop display, or, whenever John felt that all of this was getting too ridiculous, he pulled Sherlock down into a kiss and they forgot their worries for a moment. 

Nobody paid them any attention and John felt strangely liberated, realising that they could just be themselves, even if being themselves was more of a cover than anything else. He wondered if they’d go back to not touching in public in London. Well, not touching in public as far as John was concerned. Sherlock had been fairly hands on, and since the kiss in front of Lestrade at a crime scene he wasn’t sure whether Sherlock ever even considered how his behaviour might affect others.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Us.”

“Not the case.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because … because I don’t want to.”

“If the Russians are involved …”

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm, what?”

“I don’t want to think about that. Not yet.”

Sherlock sighed.

“I just want to … be. For now. We don’t do that enough. I mean, not since …”

“Do you want to go back?”

“To the hotel?”

“To London?”

“No. We already paid for the night, so I do want to make use of that bed after we come back later.”

“Even though it might not be safe?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. If they take an agent hostage …”

“You think they took him hostage?”

“Obviously.”

“Sherlock …” John nudged his shoulder with his chin. “Tell me.”

“I thought …”

“If you are going to tell me that I said I don’t want to think about the case and now I am asking questions even though you purposefully took the conversation there I …” he did not finish the sentence as he wasn’t sure what he wanted to threaten him with. 

Sherlock’s amused expression told him that he didn’t need to anyway. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“They must have taken him hostage. He’s leverage. A big fish. If they know he was a double agent he’d be extremely valuable – to both sides. The question is, why did they get ahold of him. And what does it have to do with this theme park.”

“Russian investment? It wouldn’t be unheard of. They might have invested in the park and a second party threatened to destroy it because of that. Maybe there was a different bidder? Or at least someone who wanted in on it and then didn’t get their shot because of the money? Maybe it’s the land this park is built on? They might want it destroyed in order to … I don’t know. Build hotels? Casinos? Coal mines?”

Sherlock nodded along, looking proud. It was slightly disconcerting. “Very good, John. Some of several options. Chesterton is an expert on drug smuggling and large scale illegal imports, exotic animals, that sort of thing. My money is on something that the Russians wanted to ship here – possibly sell, and he might have lent a hand. The deal went sour and he’s kept as insurance.”

“And his wife doesn’t know anything? That doesn’t sound reasonable.”

“Well, I’ve never met Chesterton. He might be a good spy.”

“Should we go back and talk to her?”

“They might be watching her as well?”

John sighed. “Very likely. Do you think he’s in danger?”

“He might be. But there would be intel. So far Mycroft hasn’t given me anything useful.”

“And Moriarty?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly needing a moment of less sensory input. “I haven’t the faintest.”

“You mentioned drugs?”

“You think Chesterton and whoever else is involved might have supplied Miranda and co. with chemicals?”

“It’s a possibility, isn't it?” John felt the need to defend his theory, suspecting that Sherlock would cut him down by the knees in a moment. Instead, Sherlock began smiling.

“John, you’re a genius!”

John felt his cheeks glow despite the cold. “How?”

“Well, I don’t know if you are right, but you might have found a realistic connection.”

“Well, do I get a kiss for my trouble?” John tried his hardest to ignore the actual content of their conversation and hoped that he could keep himself as emotionally detached as possible and instead focus on Sherlock - healthy, relatively happy, and definitely in the mood for physical contact. And the look Sherlock gave him then did a whole lot to keep it that way.

“Right, let’s cancel the midnight tour. We’re going back home.”

“We are? But the hotel...”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “We’ll be wasting precious time if we stay.”

“You have your phone. You can work with your phone. And we have the files. We go through them again and see if we missed anything.”

“Is that really the reason you want to go back to the hotel?” Sherlock asked fondly and John grinned.

“You know it’s not. But it’s what I need to say in order to convince you to stay.”

Sherlock chuckled and kissed him full on the lips. “Right.”

They returned to the chippy and Sherlock handed the man a telephone number that he promised would be prove useful for his amnesia. Then he explained that due to unforeseen circumstances they wouldn’t be able to make it later that night but that he would be incredibly grateful if they might be able to come back another time. 

The owner looked a little conflicted before he nodded. “They are supposed to open again soon. They’ve been renovating bits last year and I think they are running the first tests next week. Once it’s open, I’m afraid I can’t let you use the backdoor anymore as all the doors will be monitored. We got a notice the other day. I’d forgotten to mention it earlier, but I figured if you went tonight it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you so much. But I think once it opens we can actually just visit as paying customers. Thank you for the offer. We definitely don’t want to cause any problems.”

“Well, cheers!”

They left and John stretched and curled his left hand which had started to shake again. He hated that it affected him so much when it happened. 

“So something _is_ going to happen.”

“Yes. We should go back to London and see what else we can find.”

“Or we could ask the locals. Little old ladies, remember? Your favourites?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, if we ask too many questions, we’ll become too obvious. We shouldn’t show any interest in the park at all.”

“But it’s too late for that. If they know we went to the archive, they’ll know that we …”

“Didn’t find anything of interest.” Sherlock sighed and then took John’s hand again, pulling him down the sidewalk into the direction of the hotel. 

“There weren’t any signs of recent renovations,” Sherlock remarked after a moment of silence. “But they were working on the premises. Whatever they did, did not necessarily have to do with the rides.”

“You think it’s their meeting point or something?”

“Yes. They might have brought in materials, but they weren’t for the park.”

“Jesus. Why do they want to open it, then? If no work was done on the rides they can’t possibly be safe.”

Sherlock looked at John with a grave expression. “Exactly.”

Once they were back in the room, John realised that Sherlock had taken his trembling hand and that the tremor had stopped. 

“I love you,” he said, watching him take off his scarf. 

Sherlock let it drop to the floor. “Thank you for staying.”

John cocked his head, realising that Sherlock was taking this much more seriously than he had let on. 

“I know that this is the last thing you want to do, and yet you’re still here.” His lips were trembling but he bit his lower lip and when he inhaled, he had calmed down. 

“I gather there will be some sort of major reward in this for you if you solve this case?”

Sherlock frowned for a second before he realised that John was trying to change the topic. 

“A knighthood?” he said with a sneer and John had to laugh. 

“Sir Sherlock, huh?” John chuckled and stepped closer. “You know that it would be the only thing I would call you in bed from that day on?”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh John,” he said fondly and kissed him deeply. “I love you.”

John felt his heart in his throat. All of this was ridiculous and disheartening and scary, but in the end, he was happy to be where he was. Right there, in Sherlock’s arms.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

They both settled down on the bed and began reading. John tried to track any traces to previous owners of Margate to Giddon and Sherlock hacked into Mycroft’s email account to check on Mycroft’s sources and connections concerning the case. There was disappointingly little to be found out.

John’s phone rang and he stared at the screen for a moment, praying that it wouldn’t be anyone he didn’t want to speak to as the number was suppressed, but once he answered, he had to grin.

“Tell Sherlock to stay out of emails, please?”

John felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily at the ‘please’. “You could tell him yourself, you know?”

“But he only listens to you, apparently.” 

John chuckled and Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly being able to understand his brother on the other end of the conversation. 

“Why is there nothing on the case?” he asked loudly and Mycroft sighed so noisily John was sure that Sherlock had heard that, too. 

“Because it’s top secret and I do not keep such intel in my inbox.”

“Oh, I should have retrieved deleted files, then? Do you think Prism would hand them over if I asked nicely?”

“Why are you still in Kent?”

“Because we paid for the night, so we might as well spend it here.”

“Why on earth?”

John just handed over the phone, tired of having two Holmes brothers positively shout at each other through his phone. 

“There was an incident involving sand and the sea and the cold.”

“An incident?”

“John made me go into the sea.” Sherlock sounded much more put out than he had been.

“He did what?”

“You are asking an unusual amount of questions concerning my general well-being.”

“Lately, you have come close to your demise unusually often, brother mine.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, could you have some of your people investigate the connection between Mrs Chesterton and her brother, Jimmy Goddon? I … we,” he reached out to pat John’s knee, “are fairly certain that Jimmy Goddon is involved in the kidnapping of Mr Chesterton.”

“Kidnapping?”

“Fairly sure, yes.”

“Right. You two come back to London tomorrow so we can compare notes. No more phone calls or texts until then, understood?”

“You’re the one that called.”

“And no more hacking into my emails.”

“Fine. They were boring anyway.” Sherlock hung up and John chuckled as he took his phone back.

“No progress then?”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “I’m sure he knows more than he lets on.”

John nodded and scooted closer until he could rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t think we’ll find anything this way. Let’s see what Mycroft can give us and then we visit Mrs Chesterton again to see if we can find out what her brother knows and where he is.”

“I’ll need you to call Elsie back, too,” Sherlock said, sounding like he knew that John wouldn’t like it.

“Of course.”

“I’m certain we’ll find a lead there. I couldn’t find any connection between her and Russia, so I wonder if there is a third party involved.”

“How do you mean?”

“What if Mrs Chesterton and Goddon were dealing with someone other than the Russians. What if the Russians were dealing with that party and Mr Chesterton got caught in the middle?” Sherlock sat up, forcing John to sit up, too.

“Consider this. The park is owned by Goddon, and Chesterton probably has some interest in it, too. It’s supposed to re-open soon, but it’s in no state for that. Even if they would take another six months to open it, there would be expansive construction and restoration work going on as we speak.”

“Yes, we already got this far.”

“What if it’s them who threatened to burn it down. They put out the threats, wait until it’s just about to re-open, burn it down, and then collect the insurance money. Nobody would actually look at the state of the rides then, because they are listed and therefore valuable, no matter whether they are restored or not.”

“Insurance fraud. Do you think it’s really that simple?”

“What if the other party was actually interested in re-opening the park and preserving it. What if the Russians were a partner in this endeavour? Spare parts on the black market, animals …” 

John nodded. “Sounds better than some Cold War conspiracy theory. I’d also really appreciate it if we could stop talking about _the Russians_. It’s just that … I’m not sure we should generalise.”

Sherlock scoffed but then nodded. “Sorry, must be Mycroft’s influence.” He settled back against the headboard, reaching out to gently run his hand up and down John’s arm. “Chesterton found out about the blackmailing because of his connections to Russia, presumably, and wanted to get involved somehow – either with or against his wife, and disappeared. Hmm, this doesn’t make sense. Why would he be in danger? They could cut a deal and be done with it. Why involve Mycroft, too?”

“Have you considered that things might not be as dangerous as we think?”

“I have, but Moriarty worries me.”

“He’s dead, remember?”

Sherlock exhaled noisily. “Yes, I remember. And you are right. It’s probably less dangerous than we think. But a double agent is involved so it has some additional layer of difficulty attached to it. Essentially, the public can never know.”

John nodded. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“Are you ordering in?”

“No, I’ll go downstairs and see what they have at the bar.”

“Fish, probably.”

“Probably. You coming?”

“Umm.”

“You don’t have to.”

Sherlock looked at John for long enough to make him wonder whether Sherlock had taken offense, but then he smiled and shook his head. “Go ahead, I’ll join you in a while.”

So John went downstairs, regretting leaving Sherlock behind in the hotel room but hoping that when they returned, they would manage to ignore the case and really do what they had started in pretence earlier. His ears burned when he ordered food and a glass of house wine in the small hotel restaurant. 

He fiddled with his phone, scrolling down his list of contacts, noticing that he only had Elsie’s number saved in his list of calls, but not in his phone book. With a decidedly uncomfortable feeling, he saved her number with her name as “Elsie, lovely voice”. 

The food arrived and he wondered where Sherlock was when he started eating despite the guilt in his guts. Sherlock would be fine and he probably wanted to avoid food for now. He was probably too frustrated to eat because he did not truly understand the case. But what bothered John was that usually he would sit across from him and watch him eat, explaining everything to him while John chewed and nodded and tried to follow his words. 

When Sherlock still hadn’t come downstairs when he had finished the food and two glasses of wine, he paid and walked outside into the cold, seeing his breath ripped from his lips like smoke. The wind came in rough from the sea and he could hear the waves more prominently, wondering if a storm was approaching. The thought did not help him calm down. 

He checked the time and then took out his phone again, shivering with cold and dread. He pressed on Elsie’s profile and watched as his phone dialled her number. 

She picked up after a few seconds. “Hello?”

“Hi, Elsie? This is John. You know, from a couple of days ago?”

“Oh, hi John. How are you. I didn’t think you’d call again.”

“I was busy and now I’m on a short trip, but it’s a quiet evening and I thought I might just call and see how you are doing?”

He wasn’t sure why he had called, but his instinct had told him that it was a good time. He tried to remember his training. Eliminating all possibly enemies or at least making sure to know where they were at any given time was always a priority. 

“Right. I’m fine. I have tea and a bottle of wine for later.”

“Later?”

“Oh, John. Do you think we’re already at a stage where I tell you about my evening plans?”

John chuckled, despite himself. Once upon a time he would have flirted the sun out of the sky for a girl like her. “Apologies. I did not mean to intrude.”

“So you’re lonely?”

“Bored, rather.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, I want to be honest.”

“Who has ever been honest on a phone when the other person couldn’t see them,” she chuckled and John felt his skin prickle. What if a camera was trained on him right then, watching his every move. He remembered the camera in Caliban Tower and Lestrade’s reaction to it. Sherlock still hadn’t seen the video and John was glad that he hadn’t. He knew it would cause him more pain than he could take.

“John?”

“Sorry, I was distracted by the sea.”

“You’re outside? By the sea? And you’ve not frozen to death yet? Go get inside and have some tea, too. So we could both have some tea.”

“You’re quite the romantic, huh?” John smiled, feeling his face cramp with the cold and the force behind his lies. 

“When are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow. Possibly the day after tomorrow.”

“Why not meet up for tea?”

“As in a date?”

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed. “Maybe?”

“No strings attached, just tea.”

“Good. I mean. Sure, yes. Let me know where and when I can pick you up.”

“I will text you. Now go inside before you catch your death.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thanks for calling. It doesn’t happen often these days.”

“Sure.”

“Good night.”

“Bye, Elsie.”

“Bye.”

He hung up, feeling properly conflicted. Either Elsie was an extremely good liar who was not at all surprised by his late phone call or she wasn’t what he and Sherlock suspected. Yet all evidence pointed to her involvement in their last case and her connection to Moriarty’s network. Her relaxed voice, her willingness to chat with him, her teasing and her obvious happiness following the prospect of going on a date with him spoke against his better judgement and he wondered whether he was making a major mistake in flirting with her so obviously.

Slowly making his way upstairs he wondered whether he should text her to say that he wasn’t interested in a date after all, but he also knew that it would be easier to figure out whether she was involved when they were face to face. And he would choose the venue, so there would be no danger of him being drugged and kidnapped. 

He knocked on the door, his stomach in knots, and when Sherlock opened he simply walked past him, sitting down on the bed, burying his head in his hands.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, closing the door carefully before coming to stand a few feet away from him. 

“I called Elsie.”

“When I wasn’t there?”

John looked up, trying to see whether Sherlock was serious or whether he was referring to John’s flirting, which had led to interesting results. The look on Sherlock’s face didn’t quite give away which of the two it was. 

“I called her and I flirted and we’re probably going out tomorrow night.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. We can have Lestrade’s men close, make sure you’re safe.”

“It’s not just that,” John rubbed his face. “I’m not sure that she’s involved in any of this.”

“Is that why you called her now?”

“I just figured it would be a good time to surprise her. She was surprised, but not in a bad way. Nothing she said spoke of her having expected my call. She was nice.”

“Oh no.” Sherlock sat down next to him.

“What?”

“You like her!”

“I do.” 

Sherlock looked scandalised and John had to chuckle. “Not like that. But it feels like she’s innocent.”

“It … feels.”

Sherlock looked positively disgusted. 

“Don’t do that,” John shook his head. “There’s no reason to worry about that.”

“Isn’t there?”

John leaned over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “I just hope she doesn’t like me when we meet so I can spare her the uncomfortable talk at the end of our date.”

“The talk in which you tell her that you are in love with a handsome and attractive young man who is waiting for you at home?”

“Since you’ll be there anyway, why don’t you come and crash our date like you would have in another life?” John kissed him again, this time closer to his lips. Sherlock smirked. 

“I could make a scene.”

“Even if she’s on their side. It could work to get me out of the situation if things turn sour?”

“Because she’ll know we’re together.”

“I don’t know how much they know. I don’t think Moriarty would have shared that information with his people. It doesn’t strike me as something he would do.”

Sherlock let himself fall backwards onto the bed. “But you did eat?”

“I did. I’m good for tonight.”

“Good. Undress me!”

John looked at Sherlock who simply lay there, his arms spread out. 

“What’s in it for me?” John asked, enjoying the view for a moment.

Sherlock smirked again. “Come and find out.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

John tried hard to push the events and thoughts of the day away. He began to understand that Sherlock usually did not share his thought processes with him in the way he had just then, because it meant that now he imagined every single one of them. He couldn’t detach himself from them like Sherlock could, who managed to withdraw emotionally and simply consider all possibilities equally without fear influencing his deliberations.

“John?” Sherlock reached out for him, pulling him down so that he came to lie next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” John hid his face momentarily between Sherlock’s shoulder and the pillow, but then he inhaled deeply. “How do you manage to not be worried all of the time?”

“About the case?”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock turned on his side and gently ran his fingers across John’s cheek and his hair. “I prioritise.”

“No eating over feeling?”

Sherlock made a face that told John clearly that he was not willing to discuss his eating habits again. “I look at the problem and consider what needs to be done next.”

“But how do you know? It must be so frustrating to constantly stop to reconsider with every new bit of evidence.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know that what I wanted when you knocked on the door was very different from what you wanted.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sherlock kissed him gently, helping only very little to diffuse John’s worry.

“I had hoped that once you had taken care of your most urgent physical needs, you would be open to fulfilling others as well.”

“You wanted me to come in and fuck you?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and John had to giggle. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll still do that.”

“But you didn’t, and even now, it’s very different from what I imagined it would be like.”

“So you think that reconsidering what I want and changing your approach to what you want is comparable to you trying to solve a case?”

“In a way, yes.”

John looked at him for a long moment before he shook his head and leaned in closer, kissing Sherlock slowly and deeply. “I’m sorry for not wanting what you wanted.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock frowned.

“I know I talked of nothing else all day, but now?”

“John, shut up.”

“But Sherlock ...”

“John. What do you want. Right now. What do you really want.”

The fact that Sherlock was doing what he had wanted from him all of those months and years living with him made it hard for John to breathe. He was considerate. He placed John’s needs above his own and he vocalised the process. John didn’t know how to respond. 

It was Sherlock’s understanding and gentle expression that tipped him over. He pulled Sherlock close and he pressed his face against his chest like so many times before, letting his emotions take over while Sherlock carefully stroked his hair. He held him for a long time and when John was finally ready to let go, Sherlock took his face between his hands and looked at him with genuine concern. 

“Better?” he finally asked and John nodded, biting his lip as not to start crying again. It was so unusual for Sherlock to be like that John wondered whether he had misjudged how deeply the case affected him. Or perhaps it was the sum of all those past weeks in which their world was shaken up and once it had resettled, it looked decidedly different. There was no option going back to how things used to be. To simpler times. 

John inhaled deeply and wiped his face. Things might have been simpler, but he had not been okay back then either. He had a purpose now, a real purpose. And he had someone to take care of, which felt very different from what it had felt like with Sarah, who had been the caring one, really. She had given him all the freedom he needed and more while caring so deeply, and John knew that he had never quite felt the same way, couldn’t really, until he had realised that the only person he could love as deeply was right there next to him.

“Okay,” he said, if only to say something. “I’ll go and have a shower and then I want you to make love to me.”

Sherlock sat up straighter against the headboard and pressed his lips together in a small satisfied smile. “Am I allowed to join you?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Sherlock frowned and John smiled – a strange feeling after the last ten minutes of crying. 

“I’ll be quick.” He disentangled himself from Sherlock and slid off the bed.

He leaned against the cold tiles for a moment, trying to fight down fresh tears. It was difficult for him to calm down after allowing himself to be weak and open and overwhelmed. Yet it was very different from what he felt like after a panic attack. He felt tired now, but not exhausted. He felt optimistic instead of slowly being overcome by the depressing darkness that settled in his thoughts after an attack and which was so difficult to shake off. 

Turning on the shower, he let water run across his face for a moment before he took the shower gel and went to work on himself. He made sure that he was clean and relaxed when he towelled himself off. A glance in the mirror confirmed the smile that had stolen itself into his features as he carefully stretched himself open. 

Sherlock sat naked on the bed, his phone in one hand while the other slowly stroked his growing erection into full hardness. He had turned on the heating and drawn the blinds again. Only one of the bedside lamps was still switched on, casting half of Sherlock into shade while his face was illuminated by the blue light of his phone’s screen.

He looked up at John and dropped his phone on the night stand. His left hand never stopped moving.

John felt a spark of heat rush down his spine and settle in his groin. Sherlock was utterly beautiful like this. 

He switched off the bathroom light, feeling warm and safe even though he was standing naked in the middle of an unfamiliar room that was possibly under surveillance from either British or Russian parties, or possibly both. To chase this thought away, he ran his own hand from his chest down to his cock, watching Sherlock watch him with bated breath. 

“Sherlock,” John started, but Sherlock shook his head. 

So John walked over to his coat and pulled a condom and the lube from the inner pocket, grinning when he realised that Sherlock had carried them around all day. He also wondered how smart it was to carry condoms in below zero degrees temperature, but he gathered that Sherlock was always warm enough to uphold a relatively normal temperature on the inside of the coat. 

He returned to the bed, still amused by his own thoughts, and carefully pulled the wrapper open. Sherlock clearly did not want him to speak, so he gave him a questioning look which Sherlock answered by letting go of his cock. John smiled and climbed onto the bed and between Sherlock’s legs, kissing him gently for a moment, before he looked down and carefully rolled the condom down Sherlock’s length. The tiniest moan escaped Sherlock and John’s smile widened. He stroked him a few times before moving back a little and bending down, taking him into his mouth. 

This time, Sherlock’s breath escaped in a groan and John felt more than encouraged to beat him at his own game. He added pressure to the grasp of his lips by pressing his tongue flat against Sherlock’s hardness before he started moving down, slow enough to know that Sherlock did not get what he craved. 

He could feel Sherlock’s hands hover just above his head, ready to push or pull if things became too unbearable for him. 

After a few minutes of teasing Sherlock like this, John moved faster, adding the pressure of two fingers at the base of his cock. Sherlock’s breathing became laboured and his involuntary moans grew more frequent. He wondered whether Sherlock would let him bring him to orgasm, but when he felt Sherlock’s hips rise to meet him half way, he decided that he did not want to take him there after all. Not yet, anyway.

He let go of him, pressing one final kiss to his head before he sat up. Sherlock looked utterly dishevelled. Instead of trying to dictate John’s movement, he had buried one hand in his own hair while the other was pressed across his mouth in a futile attempt to keep his vocal chords in check. Even in the dim light John could see how flushed his chest was. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, biting his lips immediately when Sherlock’s eyes widened. Instead of telling Sherlock just how utterly attractive he found him just then, he picked up the bottle of lube and carefully squeezed some of it out onto his fingers. Then he reached around his own body, pressing his fingers into himself.

Sherlock’s eyes went even wider and he took John’s face between his hands and kissed him hard. John rose up to be able to push his fingers deeper and Sherlock immediately dropped his head to suck John into his mouth. 

“Shhhhit,” John gasped before pressing his lips together, but he could not hold back the moans that forced themselves out of his chest with every dip of Sherlock’s head. Eventually Sherlock picked up the lube and slicked himself up before reaching around John and pulling at his hand, replacing John’s fingers with his own.

John moaned loudly this time, but he was too overwhelmed to check himself. When Sherlock returned to sucking him deeply into his mouth while two fingers positively fucked him, he cradled Sherlock’s head in his arms and came. 

He tried to straighten again, but Sherlock’s fingers were still inside of him and his lips still firmly around his cock, so the best he managed was to let go of Sherlock’s head and hold on to the headboard instead. 

Sherlock looked up, his eyes watering, but he looked very pleased with himself. John shook his head, chuckling, and then grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Sherlock’s head back with a little more force than necessary before bending down and crushing his lips against Sherlock’s. 

He tasted himself on Sherlock’s tongue and his whole body shuddered in aftershocks when Sherlock’s free hand settled against the back of his head and forced him to stay down, dominating the kiss despite their positions. 

Finally, Sherlock pulled his fingers out and John sat back on his heels, breaking the kiss. John wasn’t sure that he was ready to have Sherlock inside of him, but he figured that the only way to find out was to try and see how it felt. 

Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s chest until John let himself fall backwards, trapping his calves and feet underneath his own body. For a moment, Sherlock looked at him with such an intensity that John found it difficult to breathe. He wasn’t comfortable in this position, but he was relaxed enough for his muscles not to cramp. Yet he could feel the stretch in his legs and stomach and knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay in this position for long. 

After wiping his fingers on the sheets, Sherlock helped him to untuck his legs very slowly and carefully, stretching each out in turn, gently running his hands up and down each leg, massaging the muscles around his calves and knees. Then he pushed at them, forcing his knees up against his chest. 

John took hold of his legs, wanting to give Sherlock all the access he needed, and he was rewarded with a bright smile and a kiss. 

Then Sherlock settled between his legs, one arm placed just above John’s shoulder and next to his neck to hold him up, while he used the other to guide himself into John.

For a moment, John felt overwhelmed. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s arm, closing his eyes against the pressure, but then he inhaled deeply and with his exhale went the resistance. Sherlock pushed inside, making John jump when he brushed his prostate on the way.

When he stilled, John realised that he was waiting for his confirmation to go on, so John reached up and pulled his face down, meeting him half way, kissing him hard. When he let himself fall back, he nodded, biting his lip. And Sherlock started to move. He seemed a little clumsy at first, trying to find the best angle, but once he had found it, he settled into a rhythm that immediately propelled John towards arousal again. 

He felt himself grow hard again, grunting with every thrust, watching Sherlock’s body above him. Once more, he felt desperate to tell Sherlock what he felt for him, but he realised that Sherlock did not want to hear what he had to say. At least not now, in any case.

So instead, John tried to redirect his thoughts, concentrating on every part of their bodies that touched, and on every breath that escaped Sherlock to settle on his face as the tiniest of puffs. On the sound of their bodies slick and wet and filthy to his ears. On the burning sensation of Sherlock inside of him, so close, but still not close enough. 

He watched Sherlock’s face, the way his eyebrows were knitted together in concentration and the way his lips parted to make way for his moans. The tremble in his chin when he found him watching. The smile that followed immediately upon it. 

John took hold of Sherlock’s arm next to him, holding it in place, while he pressed his lips against his wrist. When Sherlock sped up slightly, he opened his mouth and began sucking, trying to distract himself from the new level of heat that built at the base of his spine. 

When Sherlock grew faster yet, he bit down, not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make sure Sherlock knew that he might. 

“John! Jesus, John!” Sherlock gasped, surprising him enough to make him let go and look up. 

Sherlock lowered himself until his entire upper body rested on John’s and he kissed him deeply while his hips snapped forward. He was close now. John could feel how hard he was, and his kisses grew messy, interrupted by moans and gasps, and finally he stilled, his hands clutching at John while his entire body tensed up. With a loud, surprised sounding cry, Sherlock came.

After a few seconds of desperate gasps, Sherlock began moving again, riding out his orgasm as long as he could, but having to stop again and again when his body tensed up repeatedly. John held him, both arms around his back, his legs locked behind the small of Sherlock’s back. 

It could only have half a minute, but it seemed like a small eternity to John before Sherlock pushed himself up again and took him into his hands. He was still not soft enough to slip out of John, so that when he brought him to his second orgasm, it was all the more intense for the pressure of Sherlock still inside of him, while Sherlock gasped in surprise and was overwhelmed by more aftershocks when John clenched around him. 

John pulled him down after he had made sure that Sherlock had safely and painlessly pulled out of him, and hugged him close. Sherlock’s breathing was still erratic long after John had calmed down, and John wondered why Sherlock had come so hard. 

“You okay?” he asked after Sherlock’s breathing was back to normal. 

“I am,” Sherlock looked at him and smiled. John’s heart lurched at that smile, which was small, happy, private … he selfishly hoped that he would be the only one to ever get to see him smile like that. 

“I’m glad.”

“Are you?” Sherlock moved away a little, carefully running his fingers along John’s jawline. 

“Yeah.”

“Bed?”

John snorted. “Yeah.”

Sherlock chuckled and pulled away entirely, rolling off the bed, coming to stand slightly wobbly on his feet. John felt a flash of heat in his stomach, remembering that fateful night in their kitchen when he had realised that things were different between them than they had been before. 

“Wait for me,” he murmured and climbed off the bed as well, joining Sherlock in the tiny bathroom, watching him through the bathroom mirror as they brushed their teeth. 

They were both too tired to pick up their conversation from earlier again, and while Sherlock insisted on taking a shower, John crawled back into bed and was half asleep when Sherlock wrapped himself around him, kissing his shoulder. 

He did realise that he had fallen asleep to Sherlock’s lips against him when he woke up from the same experience. Sherlock nuzzled his neck and kissed along his shoulder until John moved, grunting at the morning stiffness in his bones. He blinked against the light in the room and yawned heartily. 

“Morning,” he finally said, cleaning his throat and wiping at his eyes to get rid of the final traces of sleep. “What time is it?”

“Too late,” Sherlock sighed. “I did not want to wake you up earlier, but we need to drive down to London as soon as possible.”

“Right,” John sighed and stretched. “Work’s calling.”

He turned around and found that Sherlock was already dressed. When he received a proper kiss he also realised that Sherlock already had had coffee. “Did you eat something?” he asked, hoping against hope that Sherlock’s body might have demanded nourishment.

“I did. Don’t worry. Your theory has proven correct again.”

“Sex makes you hungry,” John grinned and kissed him again. “Good.”

“Not really.”

“Don’t give me that _the rest is just transport bullshit_ ,” John complained and sat up. “Your brain, I am sure, is in perfect working condition.”

“Well, you are naked.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” John grinned as he dragged himself into the bathroom. 

“Nothing.”

John grinned around his toothbrush. “De gweat Shrlck Lmes, diftacted by…”

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock chuckled and threw a towel at him. John caught it and threw it back.

He rinsed his mouth quickly and jumped into the shower, feeling his skin prickle when he found that he was still fairly relaxed and sticky from the night before. He wondered whether Sherlock would be up for a quick fuck before they had to leave, but he hadn’t checked the time yet, so he wasn’t sure whether they weren’t already too late for check out. 

He dried himself quickly and dressed just as fast, going without underwear under the guise of not wanting to put on yesterday’s shorts, but really doing it so Sherlock might remember during their ride home. 

Sherlock did not comment and positively ignored him when John squeezed his arse on his way out. 

“I need coffee before we go.”

“Fine, go get some while I get the car,” Sherlock said drily and John wondered whether he had misjudged him this morning. He seemed tense now, as if something had changed between John waking up and them checking out of the hotel. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, holding him back by his arm. He looked at him for a moment, trying to see any hint of whatever might be wrong in Sherlock’s expression, but finding none. “Do you want coffee as well?”

Sherlock exhaled loudly, succeeding only in worrying John more, before he nodded. “Thank you, John. I’ll bring the car around.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this story has plot as well XD

John balanced the paper cups along the sidewalk, looking out onto the sea for the final time. They should come back in summer. Get some sun and go swimming properly. 

He smiled when Sherlock brought the car to a halt next to him. John was still impressed by how sexy the car looked, wondering if Mycroft really ever had anyone drive him around in that specific car. It seemed too uncharacteristically showy for him. 

Sherlock opened the door and took hold of the two cups so that John could sit down in the car. The simple act of helpfulness made John realise once more how used he was to Sherlock manipulating him into helping him. 

“You care,” he simply stated when he took back both cups so Sherlock could drive.

“What?”

“Nothing,” John smiled and leaned back. “Take us home?”

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John’s face for a moment before he buckled up, squeezed his leg and started the motor again.

They drove down the motorway in silence, with Sherlock holding out his hand every now and then to signal John that he wanted more of his coffee. Only after he had finished it, John leaned over and kissed his cheek. 

“What was that for?” Sherlock asked, leaning towards him but keeping his eyes on the road.

“That was instead of asking you to stop the car in the woods and fuck me against the bonnet,” John happily replied. 

This time Sherlock didn’t manage to keep looking at the road. “What do you mean, instead?”

“We don’t have time, do we?”

“We’re not really on a schedule.”

“So we do?” John asked, feeling suddenly nervous. It was rather cold outside after all.

Sherlock’s cheeks gained colour and John bit his lip. 

“Let’s do it?”

“Mycroft is going to hate us.”

“He doesn’t hate us and I am sure he knew that something would happen. I mean, have you looked at the car?”

“Oh, don’t make me think of Mycroft taking any actual interest in my love life.”

John grinned widely at Sherlock’s words. “Well, then there’s no reason to worry at all, is there?”

“Oh, only the small possibility of being arrested for public indecency.”

“Kiss your knighthood good-bye,” John chuckled.

Sherlock suddenly swerved to the left, taking an unmarked exit off the motorway and driving down a dirt road across a field. John was stunned at the sudden move but realised that Sherlock had probably acted more intuitively than anything else. He looked just as stunned as John felt. 

“I guess that means you don’t really care for a knighthood,” John commented drily when Sherlock parked the car in the centre of a small wood three miles off the motorway. 

Sherlock looked at him as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I just realised that you could call me Sir Sherlock even without the ordeal of a ceremony.”

John burst out laughing and undid his seatbelt as well. “Inside or outside.”

Sherlock turned around to look at the leather seats in the back before he turned his gaze ahead to look at the bonnet. “Outside,” he finally said, sounding breathless.

“You sure?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not at all, but by god, just to imagine it ...”

“Right,” John was out of the car in a second, dragging Sherlock’s coat with him which he had fished from the backseat. He pulled out the lube and a condom and threw the coat back into the car. 

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he got out and walked around the car, touching the bonnet gingerly, making sure it wasn’t too hot, before he stepped around John and unbuckled his trousers from behind.

John moaned quietly, leaning against him, too excited to really feel the cold that turned both of their breaths into white, puffy clouds. 

“Fuck,” he gasped when Sherlock reached into his trousers and began tugging at him. 

“John!” Sherlock kissed against his neck before he suddenly let go of John and walked around the car again. John was confused, fearing for a few seconds that he had changed his mind and would leave him standing half hard in the woods, but Sherlock only retrieved his coat from the back and pulled it on. 

And John was suddenly very, very turned on. “Your gloves,” he whispered when Sherlock came to stand behind him again and this time pushed him forward so his hands rested on the bonnet of the car. 

“Jesus, John!”

“Do it! 

“I’ll have to throw them out after.”

“Oh no you won’t!” John tried to turn around, but Sherlock held him in place. 

“Let me prepare you first.”

“Please!”

Sherlock pushed John’s trousers down to his knees, making him stand with his feet apart as far as he could go, which wasn’t very far, before he pressed him against the slowly cooling car once more. 

John bit his lip when he heard Sherlock open the condom wrapper and then a few seconds later the lube, and he closed his eyes, praying that nobody would come their way just then. 

When he felt cool leather and yet cooler lube press against him, he almost lost his footing. Sherlock had pulled on his gloves and was pushing one leather covered finger into him while his right hand reached around and began stroking him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” John gasped in disbelief. He was so turned on he wasn’t sure he would be able to concentrate on what Sherlock was actually doing to him. Even if he had just stayed like that, one long finger buried inside of him while his cock was exposed both to the cold air and the heat of the car, John was fairly sure he would have been able to come without much more than that. 

But then Sherlock pushed a second finger into him and he realised that he wasn’t quite as relaxed anymore as he had thought he would be, and he swallowed a loud curse at the stretch, trying to breathe through it. 

Eventually, Sherlock pulled out of him and squeezed lube directly against his sensitive skin. He shuddered hard and Sherlock made a small sound that set John’s heart alight. 

“Do it, Sherlock! Please. Come on!” John begged, resting his face on his forearm to muffle any more words and sounds that might escape him. 

“No,” Sherlock said quietly and while John was busy being shocked at Sherlock’s apparent refusal to fuck him, he felt him fist at the back of his coat and pull him up into a standing position again. It took him a few seconds to realise that Sherlock would fuck him, but he would fuck him on his own terms. 

Sherlock took hold of John’s hip and pulled him back so that merely the head of his cock still touched the bonnet. John wasn’t sure he would ever forget how utterly indecent and good he felt at that moment. When Sherlock carefully pressed into him, John began moaning his name. When he began moving, pushing him forward again but still holding him up by wrapping one arm around his chest and pressing him against his body, he began shouting. 

“John!” Sherlock warned him, his lips against the nape of his neck. 

“Fuck!” Was John’s only possible response.

A gust of wind made him swear again. He was torn between being too hot and too cold and not nearly close enough to Sherlock and not nearly as close to the car as he wanted to be either. He wondered whether this was exactly what Sherlock wanted, but then he knew that Sherlock couldn’t quite possibly know just how frustrated and turned on he was. Not truly.

“I’m going to come, Sherlock!” he warned him when Sherlock started nibbling at his skin. “Please, touch me!”

But Sherlock didn’t lower his arm. Instead he let go of him and pushed him forward again so that he came to lie flattened out on the bonnet, unable to really stand, with only the tips of his shoes touching the ground now, his cock trapped against the car. 

Then Sherlock sped up, both hands on John’s hips, pushing hard. Their breaths and the heat seeping from their bodies left the air misty around them, making the experience all the more surreal. 

John tried to take some of the pressure off his middle and settled his face against his arm again, biting down on the sleeve of his coat. He hadn’t stopped moaning since Sherlock had pushed him down and while he was sure that they were fairly far away from civilization, he knew that shouting Sherlock’s name any more than he already had might not be a good idea. 

He had been so close already, and yet he hadn’t come. Sherlock was clearly close as well as his movements became less coordinated and he started gasping for air like a drowning man.

Then, finally, Sherlock reached around him and took him into his gloved hand. John came immediately, spurting across the shining surface of the car and Sherlock’s leather glove. He felt Sherlock press himself into him as far as he could go and then go still, his teeth digging into the collar of John’s coat while the rest of his face was pressed against John’s neck. The noises that escaped Sherlock made John’s orgasm all the more intense. 

He closed his eyes and simply waited for everything to become a little less overwhelming. Sherlock shuddered against him, his breath hot against John’s skin. “John!” he gasped. “Oh, John!”

John wanted to hold him, draw him into his arms and make sure he came down safely, but Sherlock still had him trapped against the car and didn’t seem able or willing to move. It was only then that he realised that Sherlock’s coat had shielded them both, providing at least a small degree of privacy in the relatively open space of the woods. Suddenly he felt like crying again. 

John swallowed his emotions and placed both hands against the bonnet, pushing back against Sherlock carefully. “Come on, we need to clean up!”

Sherlock needed two attempts to stand up. John straightened carefully, squeezing himself once to catch a final flash of heat and to wipe his own come off his cock. Then he turned around and looked at Sherlock, whose nose and cheeks were adorably reddened by the cold and who stood there, perfectly dressed with the exception that his trousers were spread open and his softening cock, still wrapped in the condom, hung out of them for all the world to see. 

John laughed at the image, which was both ridiculous and utterly endearing, and very carefully pulled the condom off. Sherlock shuddered under his hands and John smiled and kissed him gently. “I’ll never forget that,” he said quietly, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s face, realising too late that it was sticky with his own come and condensation from the car. He left a glistening trail against Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock very slowly pulled off his gloves. “You want to keep them, you explain to the dry-cleaners.”

“They’re leather, Sherlock. We can just wash them.”

“I’ll not be able to wear them again.”

“No?” John raised a challenging eye brow. “You know that these are your new super weapon now.”

“What, because they’ve been inside of you?” Sherlock frowned, but it was clear that he was trying to suppress a smile as his cheek dimpled. 

“No, well, yes. That too.”

“So you are saying that if I ever needed to distract you, I’d just get these out?”

John’s physical reaction to Sherlock’s words was all the answer he needed. “Fuck,” John simply said, trying to will away the goose flesh that had spread all over his body. “You have no idea how good they felt.”

“Well, I did see what happened when I touched you with them,” Sherlock said happily, “so I do think I can at least assume to know what it felt like.” 

“Do you have a tissue?” John hated to interrupt their after sex flirting, but he began to feel uncomfortably cold. 

Instead of an answer, Sherlock carefully placed the gloves on the bonnet of the car and then went down on his knees in front of John, his cock still out of his trousers, too, and sucked him into his mouth.

John stared at him in disbelief, too shocked to react at all, which was why his eventual physical reaction to the sudden overwhelming warmth and pressure around his oversensitive cock was all the more forceful. He fisted at Sherlock’s hair with both hands, crying out, his legs hitting the front of the car again while his upper body curled around Sherlock’s head. “Stop, stop, stop,” he finally gasped when it all became too much. 

Sherlock pulled back, spent another excruciating moment sucking at the tip of his cock, before he sat back on his heels and grinned up at John. “All clean,” he explained and pulled up John’s trousers, carefully tucking him away and closing the buttons. 

“But the lube,” John complained after a moment of simply staring at Sherlock in disbelief at his actions. 

Sherlock smirked and rose to his feet, tucking himself back into his trousers. He was already half hard again. “I want you to feel it all the way back home.”

John blinked stupidly at him. 

With a chuckle, Sherlock walked around the car and produced a bottle of water from the back. “Hands?” he asked and John held them out, flinching at the cold when Sherlock poured some over them. “How bad is my hair?” he then asked. 

John had properly messed it up. He looked wild and the drying come had only made it worse. “You look amazing,” John breathed and stepped forward, wiping the stripe of come off his face where his fingers had left it. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward. “Let me rinse the car?”

“Of course,” John swallowed and stepped away from Sherlock. He checked whether he looked decent and then watched Sherlock pour water across the bonnet, carefully wiping it down with his left hand which he also rinsed with the rest of the bottle.

“Ready to go home?”

“If by ready you mean that I want to go home and take a bath with you and then fuck you?”

“John,” Sherlock got into the car, carefully placing his gloves on the floor in front of the back seat. When John sat down, he was much more careful. He felt utterly filthy sitting down on the expensive leather seat while his arse was still slick with lube inside his jeans.

“I know, the case,” John conceded, wondering whether it would be worth the risk to palm Sherlock through his trousers. 

“You are not touching me,” Sherlock warned him. 

“But you want me to,” John almost pouted. He felt ridiculously giddy, like he had just jumped out of a plane and landed safely. He didn’t know that sex could have that effect on him. But maybe it wasn’t sex. Maybe it was Sherlock being … different. Himself. Maybe that was it. Maybe John felt so giddy because Sherlock hadn’t held back this time. He had taken from him what he needed and he had made sure that John enjoyed every single second of it. 

Most of all, John was glad to be rid of the depressing feeling that had made his heart heavy the day before. Right now, there wasn’t a huge conspiracy which might reach all the ways into the MI5. Right now he was in a sexy car with Sherlock, who looked unbelievably debauched, despite the almost perfect condition of his clothes, and he could still feel his hot breath against his neck as he had come. 

Sherlock looked at him, an amused smirk on his lips. 

“What?” John asked, fighting the urge to squeeze his leg and then move up.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Once we get home,” John tried once they reached the outskirts of London. 

“Hmm?”

“I need to make love to you before we take on this case.”

“We’re already in the middle of this case, John.”

“Still. I want to wash, properly, and I want to hold you and just … be home, you know?”

Sherlock sucked his lower lip into his mouth and chewed. “Okay,” he finally said, glancing at John. “I understand why you want that.”

“I need it. And I need you there with me.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll let Mycroft know.”

“Can we just … not tell him?”

“He’ll know we’re back.”

“So we lock the door and switch off the phones.”

Sherlock gave John a scandalised look and John playfully punched his shoulder. “It’s a thing, you know? Privacy?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John could see that he was considering John’s suggestion. It almost seemed like he had never even considered that option. He might have agreed to not using his phone during their holiday in Winchester, but John was fairly sure that Sherlock only ever switched off his phone when it was important for a case. And he had been shut out on such occasions often enough that he felt it justified that Sherlock would make him a priority also. 

With a sigh he realised that he was growing possessive again and he forced himself to think of something else. Sherlock had told him that he was allowed to demand his time and attention, but John knew in his heart that work would always and undoubtedly come first for him. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ll do it. No work today. Not until … well, if you’ll meet Elsie …” Sherlock reached out and placed his hand against the nape of John’s neck, rubbing gently. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” John shook his head, but he was afraid that Sherlock might draw back his hand, so he stopped right away. “It’s fine. I’m being unreasonable again.”

“You’re not.”

John’s chuckle was bitter. “You just fucked me against this car and it was incredible and I won’t ever forget it and yet I want more. It’s not reasonable.”

“I want it, too, you know?” Sherlock said quietly, sliding his hand along John’s jaw and across his chest until John caught it and held it there. “I want to come home and just be for a while. I don’t do that enough either.”

“You sure?”

“Quite.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you can thank me once we’re behind locked doors,” Sherlock smirked and squeezed John’s chest before he took back his hand to change the gear. 

John watched him all the way back home, marvelling at how much they both had changed during the last weeks.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

It rained when they arrived in Baker Street and they hurried to get inside. Mrs Hudson had cleaned their flat while they had been away and Sherlock grumbled Mycroft’s name when he found their refrigerator restocked.

John, for one, was glad to not have to worry about the shopping and considered going downstairs to thank Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock rushed past him when he made his way to the door again, keeping it closed.

“No,” he said. “We’re inside. This is where we stay!”

John cocked his head and plucked a sheet of paper from Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock had written _**Do NOT disturb under any circumstances! SH**_ in black marker. John giggled and kissed him. “Fair enough.”

Sherlock took back the sign and walked down half the staircase before propping it up against the uppermost step, adding some tape, just in case a gust of wind might dislocate it.

“Bathroom?” He asked once he was satisfied.

“Absolutely,” John grinned.

“Right, I’ll give you some privacy.”

“What? No! You’re coming with me.”

“John. Trust me. If I join you, we won’t make it into the bedroom.”

“ _That’s_ your concern?”

“It is. And I know for a fact that I’m right. So please, take all the time you need. I’ll do the same after. And then we … make love,” he said carefully, still trying to get comfortable speaking about sex. John was once more utterly astonished how different Sherlock’s words were from his actions.

So John took his time. He washed and shaved and spent quite some time looking at his scars, old and new. Then he wrapped a towel around his hips even though he was long dry and made his way into the sitting room again.

Sherlock stood by the window and looked outside. He had taken off his jacket so that John was treated to a lovely view of his back, covered in crisp white cotton and his bespoke trousers. He could tell that Sherlock knew where John was standing because he inclined his head ever so lightly.

“Are you alright?” John asked and Sherlock smiled with a nod.

“Quite.”

“The bathroom is yours.”

“Do you want to eat anything for lunch?”

“You go and wash, we can eat after.”

“So I am on your to do list, hmm?” he asked amused and John laughed out loud.

“I’m not going to start making lunch now, no. Now go and wash. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” Sherlock smirked and then turned around swiftly, walking right up to John, kissing him square on the lips before marching down the hall towards the bathroom.

John chuckled and made his way upstairs. He pushed the door to Sherlock’s room open, inhaled deeply, and climbed onto the bed.

He looked at the room, in daylight, taking in the obvious traces of Sherlock’s interests. Not much had changed about it since they had started sharing their rooms with each other. It only made sense to move everything into one of the bedrooms at some point and to use the other for, well, something else. A guest room, maybe? John imagined anyone wanting to stay the night and he couldn’t quite imagine anyone. Lestrade, maybe, but Sherlock would probably host him on the couch if he ever ended up wanting to stay. And even the couch might be off limits for him, considering Sherlock’s irrational jealousy.

He smiled to himself, and dropped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He could hear the pipes groan and gurgle, the muffled noises of the traffic outside, the noises that the house made. He loved this flat, he realised. He loved it and he felt at home here. And it had taken loving Sherlock to love the place, too. Before, it had been a place to stay. One of many in which he had lived and worked and felt relatively safe. Now it had become a home.

He exhaled a shaky breath just when Sherlock walked into the room. He looked worried.

“What?”

“I was about to ask you,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“Oh,” John smiled. “I just … realised something.”

“Good, bad?”

“Good,” John sat up. “And weird.”

Sherlock frowned, closing the door behind him. “Weird?”

“Yes, weird. I realised I never really felt at home anywhere. Not until now. Not until here.”

“You’ve lived here for more than a year.”

“Well, it’s not the same.”

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, I suppose it’s not.”

“I was wondering if we should make my room a guest room.”

“A _guest room_.” Sherlock sounded almost disgusted, almost.

“Why am I not surprised that you don’t like the idea?” John asked, speaking to the ceiling, but reaching out for Sherlock. Sherlock, in turn, dropped back and settled his head against John’s stomach. John’s hands immediately found his hair to play with.

“Who would want to spend the night here?”

“Greg?” John tried very carefully.

“Well,” Sherlock stated and then stopped for a long moment. “I don’t think he’d be comfortable.”

“I think he would be, in fact,” John argued, just for the sake of teasing Sherlock.

“You know I would make sure he wouldn’t be.”

“How?” John grinned and flicked Sherlock’s left earlobe.

“Well,” Sherlock started and John had to giggle.

“What? Oh.”

“I mean, I don’t know if you want to spend the whole day lying naked on the bed, but I thought that …”

“Right,” Sherlock conceded. “I see your point.”

“Can you kiss me?” John asked, needing to just hold Sherlock for a while.

Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and crawled up until his face was level with John’s. “Yes, I can,” he smiled and did just that.

John closed his eyes and drew him close, loving how gentle Sherlock was and how calm. He made sure that whenever he felt the need to deepen the kiss or to hold him just that little bit tighter, he breathed deeply and forced himself to stay calm as well.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock finally pushed himself up just a little. “I’m glad you are here with me.”

“Me, too.”

“Against all odds,” Sherlock kissed his chin and then his left cheek before dipping down between John’s jaw and shoulder to kiss his neck. John shuddered involuntarily.

“Thanks to you!”

Sherlock looked at him again and sighed. “Make love to me.”

John did not dare make fun of him then. He was clearly entirely serious. “Of course. How do you want to do it?”

Sherlock bit his lip before he sat up, tugged the towel from his hips and turned around so that he was on all fours.

“Ah,” John chuckled. “Did you bring the lube?”

“Drawer,” Sherlock simply said, waiting unmoving until John had found a new bottle of lube and produced a condom from the drawer.

“Can I?” John asked and ran his hand from the small of Sherlock’s back all the way to his balls. Sherlock shuddered a little.

“Anything,” he simply answered and dropped his head.

So he kissed the base of his spine and then proceeded to kiss and gently bite him while he coated his fingers in lube and then carefully, slowly, pushed his index finger into Sherlock.

He inhaled sharply, but John knew that he wasn’t in any pain. Very slowly, he used his middle finger to stretch and relax him a little before he slowly pushed it in as well.

“Okay?” he asked, waiting for Sherlock’s grunted affirmation before he carefully pushed both fingers in to his second knuckle.

“Still okay?” he demanded, slowly turning his hand, pressing down, stretching him open. He took his time, asking Sherlock again and again, needing to know that he was not feeling uncomfortable and Sherlock humoured him and answered every single time he was asked.

John eventually felt that Sherlock was relaxed enough and wiped his hands on Sherlock’s towel. “Like this?” he asked, stroking along Sherlock’s back.

“Yes, if you don’t mind?”

John chuckled. “Not at all.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Too bad there’s no car …” John murmured when he rolled on a condom.

Sherlock bent his back a little to give him a judgemental look.

“What? It was sexy as hell.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded and straightened again.

John chuckled when he shuffled closer, grabbing Sherlock’s hip with one hand, using the other to guide himself against Sherlock. He inhaled deeply and then pressed forward, feeling Sherlock pressing back a little. He added a little more lube to ease the way and then Sherlock rocked back and suddenly John was in all the way and he could only stare silently for a moment before he soundly slapped Sherlock across his arse with one flat hand.

“What was that for?” Sherlock complained with a surprisingly shaky voice.

“Manners,” John simply said and tried to adjust to the pressure around his cock. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Ah,” Sherlock sounded pleased.

“Did you like that?” John was still wondering about the fact that Sherlock had barely flinched, but he did not want to assume anything.

“I expected it,” Sherlock bent his back a little, rewarding John with an impossible deepening of the dimples just above his arse.

“So you did it on purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly and John chuckled again.

“Did you like it, though? My reaction?”

“Yes. I like that I surprised you. I’m not sure about the other part.”

“The spanking?” John grinned, feeling infinitely amused that Sherlock’s sex talk issue seemed to extend to anything that was even remotely related to it – but he decided not to tease Sherlock more than he already had.

“Can I move?”

“Please!”

“Come up here,” John took hold of Sherlock’s hips and pulled, and Sherlock let himself be righted. John hugged him tightly from behind and kissed his shoulders and the nape of his neck and then he began moving.

Sherlock arched his back again so that John could go deeper than he would have been able to otherwise and John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s back and stared down, watching himself glide in and out of him. He was overwhelmed with how indecent and brilliant it was, and he couldn’t stop watching.

Loud banging against the door downstairs made them both freeze. John was glad that he was holding on to Sherlock in this moment, otherwise he was sure he would have fallen off the bed in surprise.

The banging continued, but neither of them moved.

“We’re not here,” John murmured against Sherlock’s back.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was thick with regret and John’s heart fell.

“We’re not here,” he said again, slipping his hand down Sherlock’s front to take hold of his cock. The fact that he found him softening made him angry.

Sherlock stilled his hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered and John felt irrationally upset.

“Fine,” he pulled out of Sherlock a little too suddenly, realising that he might have hurt Sherlock only when Sherlock gasped. “Sorry,” he said flatly as he tugged the condom off, flinging it across the room in his anger.

“John,” Sherlock turned around and took him by the wrist. They both startled when the banging took up again and voices rose along with it. Not just Lestrade, then. “This is urgent. I’m sorry. We have to go.”

John exhaled slowly. “Of course.” He saw no reason why they should and Sherlock could clearly read between the lines.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

John shook his head. “No need. This sounds like it’ll be a while until we get a few hours to ourselves.” He could feel Sherlock recoil a few seconds before he physically moved away from him. He did not utter a word as he got dressed.

John felt ready to scream when Sherlock walked out of the door without even glancing back. Angrily, he went into his room and plucked fresh clothes from his wardrobe. He almost tripped when he pulled on his jeans too quickly, still trying to find a way to vent his frustration. He was glad that Sherlock had left, because he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of it, at least.

Before he went downstairs, he tried to get his breathing under control. He flattened his hair, straightened his shirt, and took deliberate steps downstairs. He found Lestrade, Donovan and an officer whom John remembered vaguely from a crime scene a couple of months ago standing in various places in their living room, all staring at Sherlock as if he had the answer to every question they had had. John clearly felt that none of them were in the least interested in the fact that they had interrupted them during sex.

“There’s a body, John,” Sherlock said belatedly, not looking at him, but at Lestrade. “We’ll have to go back.”

“Whose body?”

“No ID yet,” Lestrade supplied, looking worried.

“Sherlock?” John tried to get his head back into the game. He couldn’t allow his own anger to get in the way, not again, and not like this.

Sherlock simply shook his head. “I need to talk to Mrs Chesterton again. Then we can go back to Margate.”

“The crime scene …” Lestrade pointed out and Sally huffed. She seemed frustrated as well.

“Anderson will make sure nobody touches anything.”

“John?” Sherlock finally looked at him. He looked apprehensive.

“Of course I’m coming,” John said, inhaling deeply. “I’ll pack a bag.”

“Right. We’ve cars ready. Usually, we’d not get involved, but since you two were all over the crime scene just yesterday …”

“What?” John had started up the stairs but walked back down. “What do you mean?”

“You visited the park yesterday. Something went wrong with the rollercoaster. A car became detached. The body was inside.”

John felt ill. “Cause of death?”

“The crash?”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock said and all eyes were on him. Donovan, in particular, watched Sherlock carefully and John was ready to snap at her.

“We’ll look at it once we’re there,” John tried to placate everyone while he was still seething internally. He was glad to escape upstairs again and calmed himself with repacking his holiday bag. Once he was done, he did the same with Sherlock’s. He placed both bags outside and sat down on the uppermost stair, dropping his head, resting his forehead on his crossed arms.

“John?” Sherlock was slowly walking up the stairs. “Are you alright?”

“I just wanted one day.”

“I know.”

“Or a few hours, at least.”

Sherlock sat down next to him and bumped his shoulder against John’s. “I know it’s inappropriate,” he started and something in his voice made John look at him. “But your anger …”

John frowned at him, unsure whether he wanted Sherlock to finish his thought.

“Your frustration,” Sherlock tried again, avoiding John’s eyes. “It’s … what I mean to say is that … you … being so angry because … well, because we couldn’t finish. I …”

John was both irritated and amused. And maybe a tiny little bit turned on.

“I just think that it is a normal reaction to have, in your case, and it affirms that you enjoyed what I did and that you would rather still be in bed and not here and … I don’t know what I’m saying.”

John took his hand and squeezed it. “You want angry sex?”

Sherlock gasped, apparently scandalised, but John remembered quite clearly how Sherlock had reacted when John had taken control.

“I mean, we can’t, obviously, not now.”

“Your syntax is off,” John chuckled and pressed a kiss against his neck. “And I’m sorry for being angry. I just wanted you to myself.”

“We’ll be careful!”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” John realised that Sherlock was not nearly as hung up on the interruption as he was. And that bothered him more than anything else, really.

“What exactly?”

John sighed and got up. “Never mind.”

“No, John, sit down.”

“We have to go. The sooner we do this the sooner we get back to normal, right?”

Sherlock looked a little lost. This kind of anger definitely did not turn him on. John bit back an according remark and picked up his bag. “Let’s go.”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

The ride to Mrs Chesterton’s place was silent and tense. Sherlock was alternating between staring out of the window, and staring at John and he felt a tiny dark jolt of satisfaction when he noticed that Sherlock was preoccupied and couldn’t quite concentrate on the case. But he knew that his own anger and jealousy couldn’t come in the way of the work, so he squeezed Sherlock’s leg as they left the car. 

Sherlock turned around, clearly wanting to be close to John, but Mrs Chesterton had appeared in the door and John moved around Sherlock quickly as to not blow their cover. He did his best to smile at her, but she merely nodded at him before focusing on Sherlock. 

“Please come in, gentlemen. I hope you have good news?”

Sherlock waited until they were seated. He declined the offer of tea outright, as did John. There was a body now and they had to tread carefully. 

“Mrs Chesterton,” Sherlock started, scratching his collarbone and letting his fingers linger along the line of his shirt collar for longer than necessary. John had to look away. 

“We have not heard from your husband,” he said gravely, and, when Mrs Chesterton sighed in disappointment, he moved to the edge of the seat, leaning towards her. “Which is not necessarily a bad thing. We don’t have any information on whether he is being held captive, or whether something happened to him. In such cases, no news is good news.”

“Do you think he left me?”

John stared at her. She noticed and blushed lightly, avoiding his gaze. 

“Well," she explained, "since you were here I was reconsidering all the different possibilities and … well, you asked about extramarital relationships. What if he fell in love and just ran away.”

“Mrs. Chesterton,” Sherlock said carefully, “your husband is not in a position to just leg it. If he left the country, it would not be because he ran off with another woman.”

She seemed relieved, sinking back in her seat, looking at Sherlock with reverence. “Thank you.”

“However,” Sherlock started again, mirroring her in leaning back. He let his legs fall open lightly and John concentrated very hard on the book shelf behind Mrs Chesterton’s head. “We have to consider that he did leave the country. We don’t have access to the project he was working on, but he might have met with the wrong people. He might have given away too much. There are so many different reasons a man in the position of your husband might have to leave the country without a word to his loved one.”

John felt a shiver run down his spine. What Sherlock said sounded awfully reasonable. And it also sounded like something he had considered might happen to him, too. When he looked at Sherlock, he felt entirely sure that his own speech had hit closer to home than he might have intended. He looked devastated for a moment. Then he inhaled deeply and shook his head. “But that is one of many possibilities. He might as well still be in the country and hide out there. Or, which we don’t hope, he got into trouble and is held somewhere.”

“Do you think they might try to extricate information from him?” Mrs Chesterton looked helplessly from John to Sherlock and back. It was obvious that she vividly imagined torture and pain right then. 

“We can’t exclude the possibility.”

“Oh god,” she looked pale now, fragile. Sherlock got up and took her hand. 

“If you can think of anything that might help us right now, please give us a call. Even the smallest, most trivial seeming aspect might be of help.”

“What about Elsie?” she suddenly asked and John jumped. 

“What about her?”

“You said you knew her?”

“It was a mix up,” John said, his tongue feeling heavy. “I did talk to her, though. She’s quite lovely.”

“Why did you think she was relevant?” Something in the way she asked the question made John wonder how well the two women got along.

“Unrelated case, gotta dash,” Sherlock said unceremoniously and got up. “We’ll be in touch.”

He was almost out of the door when Mrs Chesterton called him back. “Mr Holmes. Am I in danger?”

John stepped up to her, blocking Sherlock from her view. “We don’t think you are. If you see or hear anything unusual, call the police. As we said, even the smallest detail …”

“I'm sorry. Mrs. Chesterton. Could I possible use your toilet before we leave?” Sherlock suddenly piped up. Both Mrs Chesterton and John stared at him. 

“Umm, yes, of course, it’s upstairs. Second door to the left. The downstairs one is ... out of order.”

“I’ll just be a second,” Sherlock jogged up the stairs and John shook his head. “I apologise. I don’t know why he is so jumpy today.”

“Jumpy? I would call it nervous.” Mrs Chesterton sighed and longingly looked at where Sherlock had disappeared. “I better check on him, no?”

John’s eyebrows almost hit his hair line when he saw her take the stairs slowly but deliberately. 

He was sure that Sherlock could defend himself if he was in danger, but somehow John wondered whether it had been Sherlock’s plan all along to move her upstairs. 

He immediately started pacing the room, taking photos of the framed photographs he saw, the newspaper on the table, the magazines under the coffee table, letters on the small table by the window. He listened intently, but couldn’t discern any noises from upstairs, so he sneaked into the kitchen, took photos again, and returned to the living room, sinking back down in the chair he had initially sat in. 

Finally, he began worrying, wondering what Sherlock and Mrs Chesterton might be doing upstairs for more than five minutes and then his heart began to race. What it she had hurt him. Drugged him? Worse?

“Sherlock?” he called, feeling cold sweat on the palm of his hands. He wiped them on his jeans and got up. He slowly walked up half the stair case. “Sherlock? Lestrade texted! We need to go.”

Nothing. He inhaled deeply and bit down the panic which threatened to settle in the pit of his stomach. Walking up the rest of the steps, he saw that the door she had indicated was open. He could hear quiet talking. Sherlock’s voice. He was so relieved he had to lean against the wall for a moment to just breathe. Then he inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and walked up to the open door fully. 

Mrs Chesterton was all but kissing Sherlock. He had his hands on her shoulder, looking at her with open eyed, pretended empathy. But she was leaning closer and closer, her left hand very low on his hip. Just then she pressed her right hand against his chest, her fingers touching his skin. 

John felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and he felt bile rise up in his throat. He had never had such a violently physical reaction to seeing anyone he loved touching someone else. Being touched. He felt the world tilt for a second before he reached out for the door to stabilise him, his knuckles grazing the wood. 

Sherlock’s head whipped around and Mrs Chesterton leaned in even closer for a moment, as if hoping he might look back and finally let her kiss him. But Sherlock stared at John and he could see that Sherlock knew that he had overstepped a boundary that neither of them had ever thought to discuss. Or even consider. But it had been firmly overstepped. 

John swallowed against the restriction in his throat, trying to breathe again, and turned around, stumbling down the stairs. He rushed outside blindly. He knew he might have jeopardised their mission, but he had not been able to control himself. He walked down the street quickly, blind with pain at something he knew he should know better than to take seriously. He knew that Sherlock had flirted with her to get information. But it was the easy way. The obvious way. Pedestrian. 

John felt rather than heard his name called out and he pushed his fists harder against the inside of his coat pockets. 

“John!” Sherlock had caught up with him, his breath streaming from his lips in the cold. “John, wait!”

John stopped, staring at the concrete under his feet. Sherlock hadn’t touched him and it hurt. John knew he would have punched him had he tried, but he still hated that he hadn’t. 

A car stopped next to them on the road and John walked around it to get in. He sat down without looking at anything or anyone, knowing that Lestrade would immediately know that something was wrong. So he did what he had done when shellfire had made sleep and thinking impossible in Afghanistan. He disappeared in his own head; in that dark place he never quite allowed himself to go to otherwise and to which his nightmares nevertheless transported him time and time again, despite his hatred of the place. But on nights like these, it had been a safe place. And right now, it seemed safer than the alternatives. 

He wasn’t sure how long they had been in the car. At some point, the door was opened and he recognised Lestrade’s worried face once he got out, but he shrugged and shook his head and that seemed enough of an answer to his friend, so he let him go. 

There was another car. Dark, sleek. They had a driver this time and John got into the back of the car, sitting behind him, ignoring Sherlock, who sat in the front, his coat buttoned up all the way as if he was truly cold. 

He stared out of the darkened window, watching first London and then the hills outside the city roll by. He recognised movement in the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. 

It was only when they reached Margate and he saw a young couple at the beach, barefoot, holding hands, trying to avoid the waves, that he snapped out of it. He looked at Sherlock, who had seen the couple, too. He looked haunted. 

John felt his entire body jolt back to life, but he couldn’t say anything. Instead he rubbed his face and continued to look out of the window. He could feel Sherlock stare at him. 

They were let out by the gates to the amusement park. John inhaled the icy air deeply and simply waited. A few minutes of awkward silence later, another car arrived, spitting out Lestrade, Donovan, and two subordinate colleagues John was sure he had met at some Christmas do at the Yard, but he didn’t remember their names. They shook his hand and introduced themselves and John needed all his energy to let it happen. 

“We’re going in. John, you’re with Donovan. You’ll go and check on the body. Anderson is already there, so you shouldn’t have any issues. Sherlock, you’re with me. You look out for anything that my people might have missed so far.” And off they were. John turned around to watch Sherlock follow Lestrade, his shoulders drawn up against the cold. He was glad to see him go. He needed space and working together would have been impossible now.

“John?” Donovan appeared in his field of vision. “Are you alright?”

“What? Oh, yes. Sorry. A little under the weather.”

“Did something happen in the house?”

John feigned ignorance and surprise at her suggestion but his stomach was in knots.

“You were alright when we left Baker Street. What happened inside the house?”

John rubbed his face. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

He could tell that she wasn’t convinced at all, but he knew how she felt about Sherlock and he did not want to give her prejudice any more fodder. On top of that he had not been alright when they had left Baker Street, but he couldn’t imagine explain to her just how much their interruption had bothered him. Yet, she was professional enough to not press it and so they entered the park and made their way to the scenic railway. A few police officers were present, most of them just standing around, awaiting orders while trying to keep warm. 

One of the cars of the scenic railway had become dislodged and landed a few yards away from the tracks. One of the seat compartments held the body of a middle aged man. John felt his focus shift. This was work. He accepted the gloves Anderson handed him and walked over to the car. 

“He was dead when you found him?”

“Where’s Sherlock?” Anderson asked, but John chose not to react. He heard Donovan whisper something, but he really couldn’t be bothered, and crouched down in front of the body.

“Blunt trauma to the forehead where he must have hit the rail when the car crashed,” he started. “Fractured skull,” he felt along the dead man’s head, looking for more fractures. Then he looked at the position the body was in and straightened again. “It also looks like his spine was injured, but that’s difficult to say from here.”

He knelt down and pushed back the upper lip from his teeth. “Residue of vomit, and saliva?” He exhaled slowly and reached for the man’s arm. Slowly, he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and pushed the sleeve of his coat and shirt up and over his elbow. He found what he had suspected he might find. 

“He injected something,” John said, deflated. “Not just once, either. This might be an overdose, or a case of inebriated riding of a rollercoaster which led to the death of the man. That, or the impact of the crash. Do we know who he is?”

“The owner,” Sherlock piped up from behind him. 

John closed his eyes for a moment before he got up. “But that’s not James Goddon. We saw him in the photos. Who is this then?” 

“Haven’t the faintest.”

“It’s one of the co-owners of Margate. They both own shares as individuals,” Lestrade read from a sheet of paper. “Geoffrey Dalby Reeve. He bought shares to the park eight years ago. Officially, it is owned by the MTCRC,” his eyes scanned the paper, “which stands for the Margate Town Centre Regeneration Company. Neither his nor Goddon’s shares are sufficient to make decisions on their own. The company owns more than 60% of the shares.”

“What?” Sherlock and John had spoken at the same time. 

“We found this,” Anderson handed Sherlock a wallet. There was no question that the man in the car was the man whose photo was on his driver’s license. 

John rubbed his face. “I don’t understand.” Why had they not found out about this man? Why had their search led to nothing apart from Mrs Chesterton’s brother? 

“The car didn’t just dislodge,” Sherlock said, handing the wallet back to Anderson. John noted that Sherlock hadn’t said anything offensive to either him or Donovan yet. “It was dragged down and Reeve placed into the car afterwards.”

Everyone stared at him. Lestrade gathered his men and women around. “Tell us.”

“Physics,” Sherlock began but being met with Lestrade’s unamused stare, he cleared his throat and started again. “The car itself is too heavy to have had enough drag to land over there. If we consider the maximum speed of what, 40 mph? This part of the track is not even the fastest. It’s just come down from this hill, so let’s say 35 mph. Then it dislodges,” Sherlock walked to the track and shook his head. “Because the tracks have been bent out of shape. It’s the cause, not the effect of the … accident. It would have twisted around and landed mostly on its side and dragged up the ground, even if it’s frozen solid. It would have left clearer and deeper marks than those at this speed.” He pointed at the ground where the earth was disturbed behind the car. “And it would have stopped sooner. It’s about four yards too far from where it rightly should be, and it’s mostly upright, which doesn’t make sense either. So whoever did this manipulated the tracks to make it seem like the car dislodged, then took the car down, dragged it a little to leave those marks, placed Reeve inside and made it look like an accident. So it’s not just one person we are looking for here, we are also looking for a crane or something similar which might have been used to lift the car off the tracks.”

“Why do you think he was placed in the car?”

“Do you see blood anywhere? Vomit? Saliva?”

John crouched down again and looked at the rail he thought the man might have hit his head on. While there was blood on the head, there was none on the rail. But that in itself was not necessarily indicative of things having gone differently. “Can we take prints?” John asked. “See if he hit his head here?”

Anderson and his colleagues immediately went to work on the car. John physically felt the silence that would usually have been filled by a vile remark from Sherlock. Even Anderson hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for it, before he concentrated on his job. 

“So,” Lestrade started after having written down everything that had been said. “One of the ownern of this park was found dead in a purposefully dislodged car of a listed historic ride. Cause of death: Probably an overdone, possibly blunt trauma. Possibly both.” 

“He was dead before he was placed in the car,” Sherlock said, sounding convinced despite John’s earlier analysis. 

“So, homicide?”

“Definitely.”

“Jesus.” Lestrade shook his head. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“No,” Sherlock simply said and walked back to the track, seemingly interested in looking at the broken tracks again, but John could tell he did it to put distance between himself and the others with only John in the middle. Sherlock dreaded their questions just as much as he did. 

“John?” 

“Hmm?” John looked away from Sherlock’s back and got up. “There was nothing here yesterday.”

“It’s getting dark and we have nothing to go on.”

“Like I said, we didn’t see anyone at all. This ride was still perfectly intact.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Considering the cold? 15, 16 hours?”

“Right under our noses,” Lestrade sighed. 

“Yeah,” John said, sounding more bitter than he had intended.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“Alright, let’s go somewhere warm and then you tell me exactly what you did here yesterday.”

Lestrade took Donovan with him but ordered John and Sherlock into the back of his car. “It’s quicker.”

John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him again and when he looked up, he saw something like urgency in his expression. For a moment, he forgot why he was upset and cocked his head in interest. Sherlock reached into his coat and produced a small bottle of pills from his coat. John took it from him, feeling a jolt of electricity when he touched Sherlock’s hand. 

He was being stupid, doing the opposite of what he wanted and actively making it all worse, but he couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t been truly shocked by Sherlock’s behaviour. Most of all, because Sherlock had known that he had gone too far. He had known how much it would hurt him to see him be so intimate with someone else. 

John shook his head and focused on the bottle. The light in the car was weak, but he could read the name printed on the label: _Geoffrey Dalby Reeve_

“What?” he stared at Sherlock, who pressed his lips together and gave John a warning glance. John pushed the bottle into his own coat pocket and pretended to be busy looking at his watch. 

“What, what?” Lestrade asked, and John could see Sally roll her eyes in the mirror. 

“Never mind,” John shook his head. 

“John.” Lestrade insisted. 

“Fine. I was just wondering why we are even on this case.”

“Remember the fire?”

“Yes. There wasn’t one, though, was there?”

“Not now, no, but the threats. And instead we get a body.”

“So you think this is the right place?”

“Fire, murder? Kind of fits the bill.”

John nodded. “Mycroft Holmes has a different reason for us to be here.” Sherlock stared at him, but John ignored him. 

“I know. He … briefed me.” Lestrade sounded somewhat irritated by the memory. 

“Did he kidnap you?” It was the first time John felt like smiling since they had left for Margate. 

“If by kidnapping you mean he drove by in a fancy car, then yes.”

John chuckled. “Yeah. Been there.”

“He could just phone.”

“He only ever phones Sherlock. Keeps kidnapping me if he has anything to say.”

“Jesus.” 

“Yeah.”

“So, you are not really here to investigate the threats?”

“We’re doing both, aren’t we?” Sherlock said, leaning forward to join the conversation and thereby moving closer to John. Their hands on Lestrade’s backrest almost touched. “That’s why we were in the park yesterday.”

“You trespassed.”

“It wasn’t … very locked,” Sherlock said with a smirk and John grinned for a second before he remembered that he was supposed to be mad at Sherlock. He frowned and looked ahead. 

“There was nothing there,” John added. “No signs of any reconstruction going on either. Considering the park is supposed to open this coming season, it seems like they are not working very hard on it. The railway, for instance, is still only half intact – I bet if you check the car wouldn’t even have had power.”

“Good point,” Sherlock conceded and John glanced at him in recognition of the subtle praise. 

“What if we interfered?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade took a left turn and Sherlock moved his hand slightly to hold on. It landed firmly on John’s. “What if they were going to burn the park, including the body? It’s a sloppy crime scene and while they might have taken care to stage it well, it’s too easy. Maybe we got there before they could manage?”

John wasn’t sure whether he should pull back his hand, but then Sherlock’s sleeve slipped down across his wrist and the cuff around his arm became visible. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, touching his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s hand. Now that they touched it seemed like he had only punished himself by not doing that sooner. His anger turned into something else, something much more fragile. 

Sherlock dared to lean in and kiss John’s hair. For a moment they remained like this, huddled together in the back of the car, holding on to each other like they were lost and didn’t quite know how to go on. 

“Oh, come on, get a room,” Donovan sighed when she looked up from her phone. 

It was precisely the wrong thing to say and John snapped. “We had a room until you two showed up,” he spat at her. 

“Jesus, John, sorry,” she shook her head in annoyance and began reading yet another message. 

“Just, leave us be, please?” John sighed and leaned back. He pulled his hand with him and turned it around so he could clasp Sherlock’s hand in his. He was far from okay, but at least he felt that he had done the right thing allowing Sherlock to be close to him again. 

They stopped at a pub in the outskirts of the town, and John saw that the police had taken it over. Several constables sat around a table, comparing notes, while a handful of plainclothes officers were talking in hushed voices. Half of them had pints in their hands and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Lestrade ushered them to a table and called to the plainclothes officers to join them. John realised that he missed Dimmock. He always felt that he understood Sherlock a little better than the others, even though he probably hated that he did. 

“Now,” Lestrade started. “I want you to tell me what exactly happened yesterday. What did you find out?”

“I’m not sure I’m cleared entirely to …”

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock! Your brother knows that you are here. If he didn’t want you to talk he’d be here right now, stopping you personally.”

“Mycroft never leaves London if he can help it …”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a warning look, and, once more, he simply stopped being unreasonable. John wondered if he would ever really learn what had happened between them before he had gotten to know them.

“We came here, checked the city archive, which had very little information on the theme park. We did not find the owner until we did some online research, and then we only found out about Goddon.”

“Hold on. Goddon? Jimmy Goddon? Brother to Mrs Chesterton?”

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed.”

“So he was right. The cases are connected.”

“Of course they are,” Sherlock said impatiently, but then he inhaled deeply and simply continued. “We went for a walk, stayed on the beach for a while, then got a hotel room to warm up.”

“Why a hotel, why not a bar or café?” one of the officers asked.

“Because we went into the water … a little at least,” John said quietly. “He had to dry off. It wouldn’t have been proper to do that in a café.”

Lestrade grinned and John tried to shoot him a warning look, but that just made him grin harder. 

“Before anyone else asks, or suspects, or feels that anything about this is strange, you should know that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes live together. There is nothing unusual about taking a hotel room to create a familiar atmosphere.”

Donovan gave her boss a look that expressed just how ridiculous she found his comment, but John could see that the officers seemed to understand exactly what Lestrade had meant for them to understand. “So, you continued your research in your headquarters.”

“Quite,” Sherlock quickly said. “And we tried to understand how Mr Chesterton might be involved in all of this. We were sure that we were under surveillance, but we can’t say by whom. They must have known that we would come looking.”

“Before all of that, you went into the park,” Lestrade pointed out. “Just so everyone here knows of everything that happened.”

“Yes, we … went into the park to have a look. It was very quiet. Nobody else was there.”

“Nothing unusual?”

“Nothing except for the fact that there was no sign of any construction or renovation works going on,” John nodded. "But apart from that, we were alone." 

“So you thought,” Lestrade pointed out and Sherlock squared his shoulders. 

“We went out for another walk, had a look around, chatted with a few people about the park. Everyone seemed sure that it would open again soon.”

“A few people?”

“The owner of a chippy,” John corrected. “We had lunch there.”

“Right.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary happened. We figured we’d drive back home and start looking for answers there. But almost as soon as we got there, well,” he glanced at Sherlock who pointedly looked away, “we were called back out.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock seemed surprised that Lestrade might want anything else from him.

“Your take?”

“We don’t have a motive, we only have relatively loose connections between Chesterton and Reeve. I have about eight theories as to what those connections might be and why they all might have led to Reeve’s death, but I have no proof. I can’t help you with what we have.”

“We have a crime scene, for Christ’s sake, and a body. That’s usually enough for you.”

“Well, it isn’t this time,” Sherlock shot back. 

“John?”

“Hmm?” 

“Anything else?”

“Nothing certain,” he said, licking his lips nervously. It was obvious that the people at this table were not interested in their walks and lunch in town. “But we suppose that Chesterton might have run into trouble with someone from Russia? Crossed them, maybe? Got involved in a case that is somehow connected to the park? We thought that the park, once opened, might be in want of exotic animals of some sort? In any case, something illegal, of course. Drugs, maybe.”

“You said Reeve probably died of an overdose.”

“I can’t say anything without a blood test and an autopsy. It certainly looked like he did, though, yes.”

“Maybe that is the link? If Reeve was a partner, he might have traded with the Russians? Used the park or its office for money laundering? His death could be a warning? He crosses them, so they leave a message?”

“Maybe?” John nodded. “But we really don’t have anything else to go on at the moment.” His hand settled against the pill bottle in his coat pocket. He had no idea why Sherlock hadn’t said anything about it, nor had he told him yet where he had gotten it from, but he guessed that Sherlock wanted to keep quiet about it for now because it was the one lead they had and he did not want the police all over his theory.

“Right,” one of the officers leaned back in his seat. “We’ll sweep the park for drugs and explosives and reconvene tomorrow morning. There’s rooms upstairs for you, gentlemen,” he nodded and John and Sherlock, “and miss,” he added, looking at Donovan with slightly more appreciation. “We’ve been advised to not let you wander around town tonight. Since we have no suspects yet, we’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Mycroft’s advice?”

Lestrade shot Sherlock another warning look before he drummed his fingers against the table top. “Have something to eat.” 

John ordered food for both of them and simply presented Sherlock with bangers and mash, giving him a stern look when Sherlock tried to push it away. “You heard them. No work tonight.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. You’re eating!”

So Sherlock ate, silently, looking down on his plate all the while. John wasn’t hungry either, but since he had forced Sherlock to eat, he couldn’t just leave his own food. 

He tried to ignore the voices around him, the banter, the slight exasperation of being overwhelmed with a task but not quite knowing what the problem was. When he felt Sherlock’s foot against his own under the table, his first reaction was to pull his own away. But when he looked up he could see that it hadn’t been accidental and that Sherlock was upset by his reaction. 

“Can we please talk?” he asked, his voice small. John remembered him in the pub before their first real kiss. The strangeness of seeing Sherlock outside of his comfort zone. He had drunk so much that night, much more than was reasonable considering his physical state back then. But, in the end, it had given him courage. And now he needed courage again, but it couldn’t come from alcohol. He was glad that he hadn’t touched any. 

“Upstairs?”

“Yes,” Sherlock was up before John could change his mind. He left half of his plate uneaten, while Sherlock had finished his meal entirely. Just as he stood, Sherlock returned. He held two keys in his hand. John frowned.

“Two rooms?”

Sherlock looked conflicted. “They said the rooms are all singles and the beds are very small.”

And suddenly John felt what he had been secretly hoping to feel all day but had been unable to force it. He felt protective of Sherlock, and touched by his insecurities. “I don’t mind,” he said quietly and picked one key from Sherlock’s palm. 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and John was sure that he could see his chin tremble. 

“Return that one,” he said, realising that Sherlock had misunderstood him. 

The reaction was breathtaking. Sherlock’s eyes lit up and his entire posture changed. He twirled around and strode back to the counter, flicking the key towards the bartender. “One is fine,” he announced, loudly enough for a dozen people to turn around and eye him curiously. Well, John thought, now half of Margate’s police force knew that we’re together, and not just living together. Sherlock returned to him with a light flush in his cheeks. Only now John realised how pale he had been all day. 

“Smoothly done,” Lestrade walked past them. “Oh, and you _stay_ in that room, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” John said and clicked his heels, and Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

They picked up their bags from where they had been placed by the door and made their way upstairs. The barman had not lied. The room was tiny, and so was the bed. There was a small sink next to a tiny table which held an old telephone and a single plastic flower in a minute vase. A single chair and a chest that doubled as a desk were all the furniture in the room. A few pegs in the wall could be used to hang clothes, but there were no hangers. An even smaller bathroom cubicle was squeezed into one corner of the room John wondered whether it would irritate Sherlock, considering that he’d have to leave his ironed shirt in the bag. 

But before John could allow himself to think of intimacies like dressing and undressing, he needed to clear the air. 

“Sit down,” he told Sherlock as soon as he had closed the door behind them.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

“You know this room is bugged, right?”

“Sherlock, just … don’t.”

Sherlock sighed and reached up into the lamp that hung low from the ceiling, picking out a small recording device. He did the same to the telephone and plucked another one from under the bed. He checked the rest of the furniture before he opened the door and dropped them into the decorative glass plate on a shelf in the hallway. 

“Sorry,” he apologised after he had closed and locked the door behind him. 

“Why didn’t you tell them about this?” John pulled the bottle from his coat. Sherlock looked utterly confused and John scoffed. “I’m sorry. Did you think we’d talk about how you would have let Mrs Chesterton do literally anything to you if I hadn’t interrupted you?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, his hands fidgeting at his sides. 

“Or the fact that you knew how it would make me feel if I saw you?”

“John,” Sherlock dropped down on the bed as if his legs were simply too tired to hold him upright.

“Or that you didn’t even try to explain until now. That you didn’t even attempt to apologise. And I was down there, taking photos, while you let her touch you!” he was getting loud and Sherlock leaned back as if to escape his anger. 

“Are you going back to London?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaky. “Is that why we only have this room?”

“What?” John realised that Sherlock was still mostly worried about not being close to him, which pacified him somewhat. “No! Of course not.”

“John,” Sherlock started again, swallowing hard and then leaning forward again. “I am deeply sorry for having upset you. I needed her to follow me so you …” he looked away, and John connected the dots.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John wanted to move, but the room was too small. Instead, he turned towards the door and closed his eyes, trying to see the world through Sherlock’s eyes. Of course he knew him well enough. He’d trained him. He had known he would take photos, have a look around. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know she would do _that_ , but I was in the bathroom and I found the bottle and she walked in just after I had taken it and I needed to distract her. And I think this bottle is the only real lead we have here. But if that is the cost then I don’t know … I don’t …”

John rubbed his face, and, while doing it, realised he had done that a lot recently and vowed to find a different way of channelling his frustration. Yet, it was better than shouting at Sherlock, or, worse, hurting him on purpose. He didn’t know what to answer to Sherlock’s confession. It made sense; as always, it made perfect sense and John was once more left frustrated by the realisation. When he turned back around, Sherlock looked at him pleadingly. He sat down on the bed next to him.

“It is the cost,” he said quietly. “It hurt me. _You_ hurt me. And I know it might be irrational and yes, I know it was for the case, but I … it’s … I’m not okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again. “I thought that maybe … after … I didn’t think you would see.”

“I know, and that’s worse!”

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t have told me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, John, by the way, I found this bottle but had to save my arse by letting her grope it.”

Sherlock looked at John in disbelief. 

“What I’m saying is that there would have been other options. You could have said that you needed painkillers for a headache. You could have said you wanted to see if there were any unusual drugs of her husband’s that might have been used to … I don’t know. Anything. Bloody dental floss!”

“She felt the bottle,” Sherlock said flatly and John gaped at him. “She came up close and touched my leg and then moved in and her fingers brushed against the bottle and she thought …”

John felt the darkness lift from his thoughts. “She thought you were hard for her?” He stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. 

Sherlock nodded, looking somewhat flustered. “I had to distract her, so I moved a little and complimented her and … well, she wouldn’t quite let me go but at least …” 

“Jesus. Are you okay?”

“What?” Sherlock looked utterly lost.

John carefully touched his hair, his shoulder, and then took hold of his hand. “She groped you.”

“Well, I wasn’t really …”

“She touched you inappropriately.”

“Yes, but I mean …”

“Are you alright?”

“John,” Sherlock turned towards him, looking even more confused than he had a moment ago. “I don’t understand why you are asking me that. I should be the one asking you!”

John smiled and moved closer and simply took Sherlock into his arms. “I’m sorry I was such an arse to you today.”

Sherlock tried to pull back but John held on tightly. “I was on edge after we were interrupted. I know you felt differently about it and I know that I should have expected that something … I don’t know … inappropriate might happen. But I was thinking more along the lines of poisoned tea and not … that.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured and finally resigned himself to the hug. John could feel him melt against his body. 

“I just really wanted those few hours alone with you. And I think when I saw you with her it just … all came together. The fact that you had flirted with her, which was so unfair, but then she also got to touch you while I didn’t and …”

“We’ve got a few hours alone now?” Sherlock suggested quietly. 

“Wait, we are not going to break out and pursue the case on our own?” John joked and Sherlock pulled back and looked at him with a gleam in his eyes. “No,” John shook his head quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“But they could be setting fire to the park as we speak. Hide the drugs. Kill Chesterton?” 

John kept shaking his head all the while. “I really couldn’t care less about Chesterton right now,” he simply stated. “And we are not leaving this place until we know who killed Reeve. Or, well, until Lestrade comes and gets us. 

“We could be back when that happens.”

“We could also go to prison if we are trespassing on a crime scene.”

“Investigating.”

“Entering despite explicit instructions not to.”

“Helping?”

“Obstructing.”

Sherlock smirked. A second later he had pinned John to the bed, climbing on top of him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his expression becoming serious again. 

“I know,” John said, hoping that Sherlock would understand that he wouldn’t get over the day’s events as quickly as he might hope. 

“Is this okay?” Sherlock asked, and once more John was taken aback by his newfound empathy and outspoken consideration for his feelings. 

“It would be better if there were fewer clothes.”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded and shrugged off his jacket without getting off John. John knew that Sherlock expected him to somehow participate in the undressing, but he decided to let Sherlock do the work. 

Once he started unbuttoning his shirt, John began rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, eventually settling against Sherlock’s crotch. “Promise me one thing.”

“Anything!” Sherlock breathed and then gasped when John’s grip grew slightly firmer. 

“No matter what happens, we will do this. We won’t let them interrupt us.”

“What if …”

“Sherlock! Promise!”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, undoubtedly to explain to John that he couldn’t guarantee anything, but John opened his trousers and pushed one hand inside, taking hold of him. So instead of a doubtlessly sensible reason, John was awarded with a quiet moan. “Alright.”

“Promise!” He had pulled him out of his trousers and was using his left hand to tuck him closer by his arse. Sherlock obediently moved up, bringing his cock close to John’s lips. His breathing was already ragged and John wondered whether what he was doing was overwhelming Sherlock. 

“I promise,” he nodded, nudging John’s lips with the tip of his cock. 

John had to smile, but he stilled him. “And I need to know that you are okay. That we’re not just doing this to … not have to think about what happened today.”

“John,” Sherlock leaned forward, but moved his hips back a bit. He carefully lowered himself on John. “I promise that I want this. That I am not emotionally scarred by a woman trying to touch my cock and that I really want you to make love to me like we started to earlier today and I am deeply sorry for what I did to you.”

John bit his lip. “Thank you. Still, if you need this to go slow …”

Sherlock kissed him, carefully, sweetly, slowly. John closed his eyes and let it happen, responding only lightly, smiling when Sherlock’s teeth pulled gently at his lower lip, only to move on to his ear. He shuddered when Sherlock pulled at his ear lobe and the moaned loudly when he sucked it into his mouth. “Oh god, Sherlock!”

“Don’t move,” Sherlock said quietly and pushed himself up. He undressed quickly, but checked that the door was indeed locked from the inside before he pushed his pants down entirely. 

“I want to watch you,” John said, turning onto his side, resting his head on his hand. 

“Let me wash. I’ll be right with you.”

“Yes, doctor,” John chuckled and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sherlock left the bathroom door open, but the shower cubicle was out of sight. John marvelled at the fact that they even had an en suite bathroom, having expected a single shower and toilet at the end of the corridor outside. 

“Sherlock?” he asked over the sound of the running water.

“What?”

John chuckled. He considered undressing, but Sherlock had told him not to move, so he wouldn’t. 

“Nothing,” he inhaled deeply. He had so hoped to spend the rest of the day and the night in Baker Street, at home, with a fire and a bottle of wine and Sherlock in his arms. And this, this room, this situation, this waiting for something to happen, left him tense, as if what they were doing now was just on borrowed time, even though he was fairly sure that they would be kept out of the investigation until the morning. 

Sherlock came back into the room, sloppily drying himself. “What?”

“Just come here,” John held out his arm. “Let me hold you.”

Sherlock obediently climbed onto the bed and into John’s arms. 

“Sorry, I just … need a moment.”

“John.” Sherlock hugged him close. “I’m sorry.”

John held him tightly, but he could feel his skin grow cold and clammy. “I don’t think I can, right now.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock moved back a little to be able to look at him. 

“Sex.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily, his eyes burning. “Okay,” he finally said, and it seemed to John that he simply hadn’t been able to speak for a moment. 

“And you’re cold, so …”

Sherlock’s expression melted into a soft smile. “Go brush your teeth then.”

“I thought you were going to undress me.”

“I don’t want to …” Sherlock bit his lip and looked away. 

“What?” John asked and pushed himself up. 

“Make your body want things that you don’t want.”

“Because you know you could,” John smiled, kissing him carefully. 

“Well.”

“You definitely could.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No.”

“Alright,” Sherlock rolled off the bed and offered John a hand. They brushed their teeth in silence and then Sherlock left the bathroom so John could shower and change into his pyjamas. Sherlock was still naked when John returned, but he had lost his erection. John noted that he was slightly disappointed, despite it all. 

He turned off the light and texted Lestrade to not wake them if not absolutely necessary. Then he sat down on the edge of the small bed, feeling exhaustion take over. A warm hand settled between his shoulder blades and slowly moved down to the small of his back. “Come to bed, John,” Sherlock said quietly. 

He inhaled deeply and then slipped under the covers. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not before he had figured out why he had reacted so strongly to Sherlock’s seeming betrayal. 

“I hate that I am so upset about this,” he finally admitted. “I mean, look at us both. What we’ve been through.”

“Can I touch you?” Sherlock asked. Only then John realised that Sherlock must have been positively pressing himself against the wall while he had lain down as close to the edge of the bed as possible. Despite the small size of the bed, they weren’t touching. 

He turned around just when Sherlock allowed himself to take up a little more space, so they ended up pressed up against each other. Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around John, pulling him even closer and pushed one leg between John’s. 

“Of course,” he said somewhat belatedly. 

“When we were at the park, Lestrade asked what had happened, ” Sherlock almost whispered. “I didn’t know what to tell him.”

John huffed and kissed his shoulder. “That he interrupted us while we were having life affirming, fantastic sex.”

“But that wasn’t the issue,” Sherlock sounded surprised. 

“Yes it was. I … didn’t really recover from the interruption.”

“But, you said …”

“Well, I didn’t. It wasn’t okay. I was on edge after that. And then the whole business with the case … The knowledge that there was a body and that she might have something to do with it and … and …” he took Sherlock’s arm and pulled it against his chest, running his finger around the cuff. “And I forgot myself. I forgot who you are. I forgot what we are. It just all disappeared when I saw you with her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Will you … be alright?”

John nodded, knowing that he was the one endangering what they had and not Sherlock. “I’ll try to be less … angry.”

Sherlock kissed him and then hugged him close. Very slowly they relaxed and settled more comfortably in each other’s arms. Sherlock’s face rested against John’s shoulder, his hand against John’s chest. “You found it life affirming and fantastic?” he finally asked into the silence of the room. 

John huffed. “Of course it was. You know it was.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock simply hummed and John could feel it resonate in his chest.

“What?” John knew this conversation wasn’t over, and he suddenly felt warmth spread through his body, emanating from Sherlock. 

“Just … high praise.”

John laughed. “Sherlock! Sex with you is incredible!”

Sherlock propped his head up on his hand, looking at him in the weak light of the room. “I know,” he said, matter of factly, and John mirrored him, coming to lie on his side with his head on his hand, staring at Sherlock in amused disbelief. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. He looked both slightly embarrassed and mischievous. John wasn’t sure what to make of it. The thing he was sure about, though, was that if Sherlock proposed to pick up where they had left off earlier, he would definitely be up for it now. Sensory memories of their heated kiss in the face of supposed surveillance mixed with those of their silent love making the night before. Then the morning sex against the car, which made John shudder just to think about. And the feeling of sinking into Sherlock in their bed at home. Of feeling him around him, the pressure of him. His skin under his hands and his lips against his neck. 

“Fuck,” John whispered and pulled Sherlock close, kissing him desperately. Sherlock seemed to have anticipated John’s reaction but for once John wasn’t mad about being manipulated. He reached around and squeezed Sherlock’s arse before pulling his leg over his hip and pressing himself against Sherlock with a rough grunt. 

Sherlock, in turn, was kissing him open mouthed and filthily, coaxing moans from him that would have embarrassed him had he been conscious of them. But all he could think of what the heat between his legs, and Sherlock’s hardness against his own. 

He pressed Sherlock back, trying to climb on top of him, needing to control his movement against Sherlock’s hips, but the bed was too small and Sherlock was half pressed against the wall. “Fuck,” he said again, louder this time, biting Sherlock’s stubble rough chin. Sherlock’s hand settled between his legs and John arched into his touch. “Oh god, yes!” 

“John,” Sherlock kissed him again before speaking against the hollow of his throat just above his collar bones. “Make love to me. Like you did this morning. Please!”

John nodded and took hold of Sherlock’s hair, tugging sharply, causing him to yelp in surprise and pain. “You have ten seconds to get me a condom or I will finish without you.”

He could see that Sherlock wanted to be smart with him but John held his gaze. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he scrambled off the bed and dove for his coat. He chucked a condom at John while trying to open the tube of lube which, John noted, was almost empty. Of course he hadn’t thought of bringing the new one from their bedroom. He pulled his pyjama bottoms down just enough to free himself and rolled the condom on. He hissed at his own touch. Only then he noticed that Sherlock’s hands were shaking so hard that he did not manage to open the lube. “Bring it here,” John ordered him and Sherlock stepped forward and into his reach.

John took the tube from him, placing it next to him on the bed, and took hold of Sherlock’s hips. “Turn around,” he said quietly, surprised by how steady his voice sounded in the face of Sherlock’s flushed and hard cock just a few inches away from his lips. Sherlock made a small keening noise which made John twitch. He turned around and bent over when John tapped the small of his back. 

He knew that he had to be careful with the little lube that was left, so he squeezed some directly onto Sherlock’s skin, pushing his thumb into him and twisting to spread it. Sherlock shuddered. 

“Hold still,” John said, more to wind Sherlock up than anything else. Sherlock held his breath.

“No,” John shook his head when he wanted to push in his index finger. Sherlock tensed around him as soon as he tried to press beyond the second sphincter. “Breathe!”

Sherlock gasped and inhaled deeply only to let his breath rush out of him in a low moan. “Relax,” John said quietly, placing his right hand against the inside of Sherlock’s left thigh. Sherlock inhaled noisily through his nose. It took a while, but eventually Sherlock relaxed enough for John to breach him and, taking more time than he felt like taking, he opened him up carefully, being conscious of his own urge to just fuck him, not minding whether he was in pain or not. 

“Fuck,” he whispered and pressed his face against one luscious arse cheek.

“What?”

“I want to hurt you,” John admitted, feeling incredibly guilty but at the same time incredibly turned on. 

Sherlock straightened, but he did not turn around. “How?”

John felt his breath rush out of him. He felt dizzy. “I want to fuck you without having prepared you properly.”

“But you did … prepare me.”

“I wouldn’t, without.”

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“John?”

John leaned back and looked up at his lean, strong back. He moved on the bed to be able to see his side and he pulled him closer by the hips until he could kiss the scar there.

Sherlock’s hand settled against the back of his neck, his fingernails gently running over the sensitive skin of his scalp and the nape of his neck. 

“I never understood,” he said against his skin, running a finger over the slightly ragged, red line of the scar. “When you said it doesn’t hurt as much,” he clarified.

Sherlock’s hand in his hair stilled. 

“I do now.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

“John?” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” he looked up. Sherlock looked down on him, clearly worried. 

“You know, you could …” he turned around and knelt on the floor in front of John so that he was slightly beneath him. John felt his heart beat faster. They were so close to tipping over into darkness again, but Sherlock knew how to anchor them both. He brought his wrist up to John’s lips, his eyes burning.

John opened his mouth very slowly. He watched Sherlock carefully as he closed his lips over his teeth and bit down. Not hard enough to break his skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. Sherlock’s eyes moved to his shoulder and John let go of his wrist and leaned forward, biting him right next to the edge of his collar bone. Sherlock moaned softly and John felt adrenaline rush through him. 

He pushed at Sherlock until he lay down on the floor and climbed off the bed to join him there. He took Sherlock’s right leg and pushed it up until his knee hit his chest, and bit his ankle. He could see Sherlock’s cock twitch, but he did not touch him, not yet. 

He kissed his way along the length of his leg, stopping at his knee, biting the sensitive skin inside the crook of his knee, making Sherlock gasp before he moved down. A very faint memory of the love bite from the day they had made love, before Moriarty died, had remained, and John immediately attached his lips to the spot and began sucking, harder this time, determined to make it last even longer. 

Sherlock’s hands settled against the back of his head, encouraging him even though John was sure that it couldn’t be all pleasure for Sherlock. He stopped sucking and licked across the crimson shape he had left blooming on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shuddered again. 

“Please,” he finally said, moving one hand from the back of John’s head to cup his cheek, pressing his thumb against the corner of his mouth until John opened his lips and sucked at it. Sherlock gasped. “Please,” he repeated again and John finally felt composed enough to do what he had wanted to do all day. He pushed Sherlock’s other leg up as well, settling between them so that he could tuck his legs over his shoulders and had easy access to Sherlock’s arse while Sherlock was prevented from touching himself, as his legs were in the way.

Sherlock seemed to realise this problem only when John began pushing into him. His eyes went wide when he simply took hold of John’s hips in lieu of his own cock. Closing his eyes, John pushed in all the way and simply stayed like that for a moment, breathing, trying to calm down. 

He was far from okay, but he was as happy as he supposed he could be in that moment. 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice made him open his eyes again. He sounded … different. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “I truly am.”

John wanted to tell him that he knew, that he had told him often enough, that he did not need yet another apology, but then he saw tears in Sherlock’s eyes and he realised that he had not truly and fairly responded to his apologies. He had acknowledged them, but nothing more. 

The only thing that kept him from panicking was that Sherlock was still hard, and that his hands were still on his sides, stroking gently up and down. 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice almost breaking. “I’m sorry for being so …”

“No!” Sherlock pushed his legs up, forcing John to move a little. Then he relaxed again, allowing John to sink down again. John got the message loud and clear. He leaned forward and kissed him. “I love you Sherlock. You did nothing wrong. I understand why you did what you did and I …”

“I don’t want you to have another nightmare,” Sherlock admitted and John suddenly understood the dread in his voice. Sherlock had been truly shocked by it and John knew that he still blamed himself for it. 

“I can’t control them,” John pointed out, unhelpfully. Sherlock closed his eyes and John felt like slapping himself. “I’m sorry,” he shook his head. 

“Please move,” Sherlock said, his voice straining. 

So John moved. Slowly at first, but then faster. He watched Sherlock’s face, whose eyes were still closed. Eventually he found a rhythm and an angle which made Sherlock squeeze his eyes shut a little harder with every thrust and soon his breath followed the same pattern. Small moans joined the wet sound of their love making and John’s laboured breath as he moved in him. 

“I forgive you!” The words tumbled from his lips without him intending to. He had repeated them over and over in his head but he had feared that they might sound ridiculous once they were spoken out loud. 

But they had a profound effect on Sherlock. He pushed his legs apart, wrapping them around John’s hips instead while his arms came around his shoulders to pull him close; close enough to make breathing difficult. 

John did not know how long Sherlock had held on to him like that, but when he relaxed again, he felt a great weight lifted off his mind. He saw that Sherlock had cried, silently, by the glimmer of tears on his cheeks in the dim light of the room. 

“I love you,” he whispered and kissed him, tasting salt. 

Sherlock’s legs relaxed a little, but only to make room for his hands. He took hold of John’s arse and began to pull, making it clear that John had not yet fulfilled Sherlock’s needs. 

So he obliged him, kissing him all the while. When Sherlock sneaked one hand between their bodies, John made room for him and wrapped his own around Sherlock’s. 

It did not take long to bring Sherlock to orgasm and John followed in the wake of it, tipped over by the expression on Sherlock’s face and the force with which his right hand dug into his hip. 

They stayed on the floor for a while longer, neither of them willing to let go of the other. When they finally got up, they barely made it to the bed. John disposed of the condom in the tiny waste basket next to the bed and climbed into Sherlock’s arms. He was asleep before he could even consider telling Sherlock good night. 

It was bright daylight when he woke up. The bed was empty and John had woken up lying in the centre of it. There was no additional warmth, so Sherlock must have gotten up a while ago already. John wondered what had woken him as there was no noise outside the door and the street below the window was also calm. 

He sat up, feeling slightly sore and a little bit hung over. Feeling so much was exhausting, he realised. He wondered how much more intense it must be for Sherlock, who had taken such care to shut out his emotions for so long. 

John reached for his coat and fished the phone out of his pocket. He was almost out of battery, which was upsetting, so he got up and dug his charger out of his bag and plugged in his phone. Then he used the toilet and washed his face. It was only when he returned to the bed that he saw the note Sherlock had left him. 

_Did not want to wake you up. Will try to solve the case quickly. S_

“Fuck!” John shouted, feeling once more wrong-footed. But then he forced himself to sit down on the bed and exhale and relax his shoulders and consider that Sherlock would have a good reason for going without him. He picked up his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number. He waited, his heart beating wildly in his chest, praying that Sherlock remembered his promise. He had no idea when Sherlock had left and in what trouble he might be if he had gone without official approval. 

Sherlock did not answer his phone and John tried to remain calm. He might have switched it off or silenced his ring tone so he wouldn’t be distracted or disturbed. It did not necessarily mean that he was in mortal danger. Yet, John couldn’t quite rid himself of the panic that made his cheeks feel numb. He blew out one long breath and then forced himself to get up. He dressed quickly, pocketed his phone, and left the room. 

Neither Lestrade nor anyone else he knew was downstairs. So Sherlock might be with them, he hoped, ordering a coffee at the bar. He added milk to his coffee with deliberate slowness and then took his cup over to the table at which they had sat yesterday. Slowly, he drank the entire cup, staring ahead, repeating a silent prayer for Sherlock’s safety again and again and again. 

Once he had finished his coffee, he got up and left the building, dialling Lestrade’s number. He was almost sure that he also wouldn’t answer when finally the line crackled and Lestrade’s voice reached his ears. “John? You’re finally up!”

“Well, yes. I am. Where’s Sherlock?”

“Not with you?” Lestrade asked and John’s heart plummeted. “He was supposed to go and get you.”

“No, he’s not here. When did he leave you?”

“Twenty minutes ago?”

“He might still be on his way. His phone is ringing out. I don’t know. I guess I’ll wait for him?”

“We’re at the mortuary. The tests look like your initial assessment was right. He died of an overdose, but it was probably forced on him. Sherlock took him apart and put him back together again, metaphorically speaking. I wish Molly had been here to whack him across the head when he got too into it.”

John had to smile, despite it all. “Alright, I’ll let you know when he gets here. I’m a little worried, to be honest.”

“Why?” The sound through his phone was suddenly much clearer. Lestrade must have gone into a different room. 

“Well, he left a note, saying he’d try to solve the case quickly.”

“John. Are you implying that …”

“Well, you know Sherlock. It might be what he thought.”

“But he wouldn’t leave you behind.” Lestrade sounded truly shocked. 

“If he knew it might be dangerous he might. He’s done it before. And he was usually right. But what if he isn’t this time?”

“Is he withholding evidence?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I just have a gut feeling that he knows more than we do.”

John huffed. “Well.”

“Oh, piss off, John. I know what you are saying. But he can’t do it. Not this time. This is not about some manuscripts. This is much bigger.”

“I know. Sorry. He … might have a lead. I’m not sure where it might take him but … is anyone at the crime scene?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Maybe check with them?”

“So he’s nowhere near you yet?”

“No. I don’t really believe he might be, though. My guess is that he somehow figured out where the murderers are and I am not sure I want him to go in alone.”

“Of course not.” A pause. “John. Can you …”

“Stay where I am?” John felt his heart sink. 

“Well, yes.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think …”

“Come here, then.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather …”

“Don’t wander off by yourself, please.”

“I’ll head out to the park, see if I can be of help there.”

“Please check in with the team there.”

“Will do. Call me if Sherlock shows up.”

“Same.”

“Absolutely.”

“Be safe, John.”

“Of course.”

He hung up, watching the low battery having gone down even further, despite his short attempt to charge it. He needed to find an outlet, preferable somewhere inside and warm. With a sigh, he started walking towards the town centre, keeping his eyes peeled for anybody who might look like Sherlock in disguise or someone Sherlock might have sent. 

He tried calling again, but realised that it would be futile. Sherlock would call him back as soon as he could. He wouldn’t forget. Not after yesterday.

When John reached the town centre, he was frozen stiff, the wind coming in fiercely from the sea. He decided to have a tea at the hotel they had spent the last night and was greeted warmly by the woman at the reception. “Oh, you’re back?”

“Not staying the night, this time, but yes. I figured since this place is familiar now, I might enjoy a hot cup of tea in your restaurant.”

“Enjoy,” she smiled and turned back to the book she had been reading when he had entered. 

He was almost down the hall when he turned around and walked back to her. “Excuse me, sorry. Has my … have you seen my partner?”

She looked up, looking worried. “No. He hasn’t been back.”

John tried a smile. “Sorry, I just figured he might have come here, too. His phone is off and we were supposed to meet up but … well, he might come after all.”

“Sorry,” she apologised again and John decided to leave her be. He walked towards the small restaurant at the end of the hallway when he remembered the cupboard. But if Sherlock had used it to get away, he would have had to walk into the hotel first. Still, he wondered if the hideout behind the wall might become important after all. 

He found a table by an outlet and plugged in his charger. Then he texted Sherlock to let him know where he was and that he expected a call from him. _No text, so I know it’s you!_

A minute later his phone rang from a suppressed number. His heart was in his throat when he answered. 

“Hello?”

“John? It’s me, Elsie.”

“Oh,” he tried to swallow his disappointment. “I … erm.”

“Sorry, my phone died and I’m calling from a payphone. I kind of expected your call yesterday. I know you didn’t affirm or anything, but, you know. I had hopes.”

“So sorry, listen …”

“No, John. I need you to listen. I know you are investigating Jim’s sister. She told me. About you and your … partner.”

John didn’t know what to say.

“So, I was wondering if you’d care to explain? You clearly did not mean to take me out on a _date_ date, did you? More like a _I’m trying to find out about that strange family you live with_ date.”

John’s face was hot and he was glad that he was relatively alone in the restaurant. “I’m so sorry, Elsie.”

“I don’t think all of our conversation was just you trying to get into my … knowledge,” she chuckled at her own joke and John felt a spark of hope. Then he remembered that she might be out to kill him and had already known about him but that something must have changed so that she was changing her strategy. If she had talked to Mrs Chesterton, and she knew that Sherlock had taken the pills…

“John?”

“Yes?” He sounded terrified. “I’m so sorry. I …”

“Thing is, I would be upset if Jim hadn’t disappeared without a trace.”

“What?”

“He received a call and just left. Left his phone, his wallet, everything.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, after he came home from work.”

“And he didn’t say anything?”

“John. Please help me find him.” She had spoken over him and he was sure that her concern was genuine.

“Where are you?”

“Victoria.”

“Do you know where I am?”

“Gloria said you might be in Margate. I don’t understand.”

John bristled. Nobody could know about that. They had never mentioned the theme park to Mrs Chesterton and their holiday had been private. 

“Can you come here?”

“What’s in Margate?”

“A beach,” John sighed. “I know you’ve never met me, but …”

“I looked you up on the internet, John.”

He bit his lip. 

“You and your partner. Gloria said that you … well …”

“I’m married to him, almost, sort of. Yes. I’m sorry for lying to you.”

“Why?”

“I thought you might be able to help.”

“Just as I thought.”

“I also thought you might want to kill us.”

“What?” She apologised to someone near her for getting loud.

“I can explain, but I can’t come to London. I need to be here. Sherlock’s gone, too.”

“Shit. Seriously? What the hell is going on there? Do you think Jim is there as well?”

“Possibly. Do me a favour, don’t tell anyone you’re coming here?”

“Why?”

“Might be dangerous.”

“Jesus. Okay. I’ll come. What is it with disappearing men these days?”

John had to chuckle. “I disappeared a while ago. Not something I want to repeat. And not something I wish on anyone else either.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry John.”

“Not your fault,” he sighed and prayed that she was really as innocent as she seemed. He could really do with an ally.

“Okay, I’ll get on the next train. I should be there in two hours. The train that gets there a quarter to one. Can you pick me up? I’ll find you, if you wait outside the turnstiles, ‘cause I know what you look like now.” She was clearly smiling and John winced.

“Please don’t freak out if I tell you that I also know what you look like.”

“I know, Gloria showed you my photo.”

“Yes,” John nodded, unwilling to tell her more about Miranda than absolutely necessary. “I’ll be there.”


	21. Chapter Twenty One

He called Sherlock again and waited for his _Busy, obviously_ message, feeling sick to his stomach. He knew he wouldn’t be strong enough to look for him again like he had two months ago. “Sherlock. For fuck’s sake! Where are you? If something happened to you … I swear …” his voice broke and he had to stop talking, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Just call me. I’m not joking. You can’t do this to me. Not again.”

He hung up and downed his tea, leaving the restaurant on wobbly legs. Outside, he called Lestrade. “Have you heard from him? He’s not here and he’s not answering his phone. I’m going to kill him!”

“John, calm down. Please. I know how you feel. I promise that I will join you in shouting at him once we found him, but right now we have another issue.”

“Jimmy Goddon is missing.”

“Wait, how can you know that? Mycroft … Mr Holmes just called me.”

“Greg, can I have one or two of your men?”

“Are you in danger?”

“I don’t know, but I’m picking someone up at the train station in about two hours and she is the one who told me about Goddon. I don’t know if she’s involved, but she must be Miranda’s twin sister, even though I don’t know if they knew each other. It’s complicated. But I don’t want to be alone with her and she might have important information …”

“John, is there anything else?”

“What? Why?”

“Why would Sherlock wander off and not tell anyone where he’s going?”

John leaned against a lamp post and stared out across the beach and the sea, a uniform gray. “I don’t know.”

“Either he thinks it’s an easy case or he thinks it’s too dangerous. Now, considering your recent history and the fact that there is a body, I am leaning towards the latter.”

John nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”

“So?”

John exhaled slowly. “Sherlock believes that Mrs Chesterton was sleeping with Reeve.”

“What? John. When did … what?”

“Sherlock found a pill bottle in her bathroom that had his name on it. She was so free with her … affections that it’s not a …”

“She might have killed him.”

John blinked. He hadn’t thought about that option. He had been so focused on her flirting with Sherlock that he had simply assumed that whatever connection they had must have been of a sexual nature. “Shit.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us before? She could be anywhere now. She is literally the only suspect we have at the moment.”

“I’m sorry. Sherlock did not want you to know. I don’t know why.”

“I will personally put you two in jail if this is obstructing the investigation!” 

“I think there might be a leak in the force,” John said, knowing that Lestrade had not been joking, but wanting it all out on the table now. “I think she knows about the investigation here.”

“Jesus! John, stay where you are. Someone will come and pick you up …”

“I’d rather Sally came,” John admitted, feeling light-headed. “I don’t know whom to trust.”

He could hear Lestrade’s frustration in every second of silence from his end. “Fine. Where are you?”

“By the shore front, next to the clock tower,” John shoved his free hand into his coat pocket. It was too cold to stand in the wind like that. He was risking a cold or worse, but there was no place where he could hide out. 

“Don’t go anywhere!”

“I won’t.”

“I swear to god …” Lestrade hung up and John knew that this changed things. Lestrade had been more than lenient, putting his own career on the line to protect him and Sherlock. Withholding evidence would not go down well with his superiors, especially not if it might have led them to the murderer sooner. But if Elsie had been at Mrs Chesterton’s house and been shown the photo, then neither of them could have been in Margate to commit the murder. It was either that or they were working together and were both already in Margate. 

He wanted to call Sherlock again, but saw that the battery of his phone was dangerously low again, and the cold wouldn’t help with that either, so he pushed it into the inside jacket of his coat and simply waited. Twenty minutes later, Sally arrived in Lestrade’s car. “Get in,” she said through the open window and John felt oddly relieved. He had imagined that she might not talk to him after what they had done. 

“Sally, I need to apologise,” he started but she shook his head. She seemed tense, but not because of him.

“You’re right. She is the identical twin of the woman who poisoned you,” she finally said, driving slowly, stopping in a parking lot of a Sainsbury’s. They still had an hour until Elsie’s train would arrive from London. “They were separated at birth, went to different schools. Might not be aware of each other is what I’m saying. But you never know.”

John nodded. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Listen, John. I’m sorry.”

“What?”

She leaned back and looked at him with her brows knitted. “I’m sorry about yesterday. It was tactless and neither of us considered that you might not be ready to work on the case.”

“It’s not that,” John was baffled, wondering why in the world Sally was apologising. He had snapped at her, but everyone had been frustrated.

“I know him. Despite what you think I respect what he’s capable of. And I know how much he’s changed since you … well, since meeting you, basically. He wouldn’t have risked the operation if he wasn’t upset.”

“He wasn’t.”

Sally huffed and shook her head. “Right. Not upset. The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t get upset. He gets inventive.”

“I don’t understand.”

She turned towards him, looking at him with an open expression. “He wants to impress you. It’s what he does. He craves an audience. You are perfect for him. We are just silly little detectives, helpless in the face of crime. He thinks he can solve this case without us, without his brother’s help, too. And sometimes he’s right. Sometimes we get it wrong. But this isn’t some personal vendetta against a psychopath. This is an international investigation and if he makes the wrong move, it’s not just his life that’s on the line.”

“You gave him access to the crime scene.” John understood perfectly.

“Him and you. Now, since his brother asked you to investigate, I am sure we can somehow explain your presence. But this disappearing act and withholding evidence and possibly kick-starting an avalanche … that’s not something that anyone would want to face questions about in court.”

“It’s not your fault,” John tried, remembering that Sally had started all of this with an apology. “We knew we’d have to come out to work, I had just hoped we’d get a little more time.”

“We shouldn’t have involved you at all,” Sally shook her head. He could tell that she wasn’t bitter, but that she offered her professional opinion. “We could have connected the dots.”

“I think Lestrade just wanted to keep him busy.”

Sally laughed, an actual, friendly, amused laugh. “Good god, we’re acting like his babysitters. How do you manage?”

“What exactly?”

“Living with him? Being his … friend,” she finished wistfully. “I mean, I get the sex part, totally, yeah. But the rest?”

John felt himself blush.

“He’s so … not compatible with anyone else.” She blew out her breath against the window, fogging it. “And yet, you just exist and he adores you. Goes as far as to steal evidence from a possible crime scene to impress you.”

“Do you really think he did that to impress me?”

“Of course he did.”

“But he left me …” he felt the tightness in his throat return and looked out of the window, away from her alert gaze. 

“I know,” she said gently. 

John exhaled slowly. “I want you to be close to me in the train station. I will walk with her. Can you make sure that I won’t be alone with her?”

“Sure. We’ll have backup, too.”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Why?”

“Because mine is running out of battery and I might need it, in case Sherlock calls, or in case I don’t find Elsie on the platform.”

“Sure,” she handed him her private phone. “He doesn’t have that number,” she added with a telling look. 

John dialled Sherlock’s number and waited. Once the mailbox message came on, he closed his eyes and listened to the silence for a moment. “Sherlock. It’s me. My phone is dead. I forgot to charge it. I am going to meet with Elsie. She’s coming here. By train. She knows about us. _Gloria_ Chesterton told her. Lestrade thinks she is involved. They are probably arresting her right now. I just thought you should know. I also told Lestrade about the pill bottle. I think we’re both in over our heads and I really want you to drop whatever the fuck it is you are working on and come back.” He let out a shuddering sigh and Sally squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. “Please,” he added before he hung up.

“Let me call Lestrade and see how things are on his end.” She indicated for John to hold on to her phone as she pulled out her work phone and speed dialled Lestrade’s number. “Boss, how are things?”

John listened to Lestrade speak for a long time, and he watched Sally’s stony expression and he wished more than ever that they had just stayed at home. Or in Winchester. Winchester had been lovely and distant and … Natalia. He had forgotten about Natalia. 

“Sally,” he interrupted her and she stopped Lestrade from talking. “I think I know where he is. Or at least, who he is with. If you contact Mycroft, he should know, too.”

Sally passed on John’s information to Lestrade and she promptly handed him the phone. “John. Spill.”

“Her name is Natalia. She’s a former spy, or maybe not former. I don’t know. Very good sleight of hand skills. We met her in Winchester and Sherlock sort of confirmed that she was there for a reason. He might have been in contact with her throughout this. I don’t know. I did not notice if he was. But I think she’s another piece of the puzzle. She might have information that she wasn’t supposed to share. Maybe Mycroft doesn’t know either. Maybe it’s just between her and Sherlock. People owe him favours, right? She might be one of those people. She seemed very familiar with him. I don’t have anything but her first name, which might not be her name at all. But she was working in this convenience store off the high street in Winchester and … Sherlock might be with her.”

“I’ll make some calls and see what I can find out.”

“Thank you.”

“You alright?”

“Not really,” John admitted. “Anything new?”

“Nothing much. Sherlock was right about the accident, but nobody touched anything since we arrived here. No arson or an attempt to destroy anything else. We’re pretty much sitting on a dead body without any context.”

“Mrs Chesterton?”

“Is being picked up right now.”

“Did you find out who talked to her?”

“Not sure, no, but I’ve sent Dimmock and he’ll make sure that she isn’t left alone with anyone. And John, please don’t do anything stupid. Sally’s not just there because you wanted her to. She’s armed. Just so you know.”

John looked at her and she smirked, her eyes on the parking lot in front of her. 

“Right.” 

“You’re not, I hope?”

“No,” John sighed. 

“Good. Now talk to that woman and report back to us, will you?”

“I think once this is over I will buy Sherlock a wedding ring that is chipped so I can keep track on him.”

“Nothing says romance like constant surveillance by your spouse.”

Sally laughed and John had to smile. Lestrade was talking quietly, but she could still understand him. John wondered what other hidden talents Sally had that she had not shared. His respect for her had grown immeasurably during the last twenty minutes. 

“I can always say that Mycroft is worse.”

“Right, I need to get back to work."

“Thanks, Greg,” John hung up and gave the phone back and Sally smiled at him. “Let’s go and get some coffee in the station?”

John nodded and she started the car. “You hold on to my phone. It is chipped, so in case you are … kidnapped … we’ll find you.”

“Thanks, Sally. Really. For picking me up and for the phone.”

“Sure.”

She parked the car a few hundred metres from the train station. They walked quickly though the cold and were glad for the warmth of their drinks once they held them. 

John blew across the steam rising from his cup. “He’s not bad, you know?”

Sally scoffed but John shook his head. “I can see why you don’t like him, but I just … he’s brilliant and, yes, he’s weird and stubborn and arrogant and impatient and he tends to make you feel like an idiot,” she nodded along with an expression that she did not really consider the _but_ that was about to come too much of a counter weight, “but he’s also kind and careful and insecure and adorable and very loyal, in his own way. And he’s …”

“An idiot,” Sherlock’s voice came from just behind his shoulder and John dropped his coffee. Sally’s eyes were impossibly wide and John turned around, ignoring the coffee which had spilled all over his and Sally’s shoes, expecting the worst, but there he was, uninjured and beautiful.


End file.
